


948

by cummingtonite



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Amputation, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Character Death, College, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies, Eye Trauma, F/M, Fear, Food, Gaslighting, Gore, Hallucinations, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Non-Consensual, Non-Linear Narrative, POV First Person, Poisoning, Power Dynamics, Rape, Sad, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Starvation, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 38,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28997403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cummingtonite/pseuds/cummingtonite
Summary: In the wrong place at the wrong time, a college students gets regenerative powers. Though he has no memory of how or why, he can’t forget the man behind the mystery—the sadist watching his every move in the lab—he who calls himself friend.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: story is told in two different timelines. Chapters with number titles = present, chapters with roman numerals = past.  
> **completed, uploading in stages**

1

Every day I gouge out my eyes. I can’t remember _why_ I do it. But every goddamn day, I wake up, piss, wash the grease off my excuse for a face and stare down that medical-grade mirror. There’s hardly any hesitation anymore. My fingernails dig into the fleshy orbital cavity. The blood comes first, like food coloring leaking into an egg white, and then, the jellification. See, with enough pressure from the right angle—the eyeball has nowhere to go. It’s just a squishy, round mass packed into a protective case of bone—even weaker than most human organs, so it liquefies, leaking from its container like congee. Or at least, I think it does.

I can’t see what happens next. But there are chunks in my cheeks and caught in my eyebrows. Hot blood rushes into the porcelain sink below. The remaining nerves tangle around my sooty fingernails, tearing a bit with each scraping motion, sending fresh jolts of searing pain directly into my skull. The searing pain is good—it’s different than the aching pain that is most of eye gouging. The searing reminds you you’re _alive,_ whereas the ache is quick to become part of who _you_ are… Is that why I can’t remember?

Why the fuck am I doing this again? I brush my fingers against the soft rims of muscle protecting my skull. I could dig deeper. I could try to pull my brains out through the hole—bury them underground like the ancient Egyptians to prepare myself for the underworld. But what would be the point in that? If there is an underworld…I’d never get a ticket.

The globules plop into the sink—much heavier than blood. They hit with a sort of _kersplat_ like a water balloon, rather than the patter of a leaky faucet. Blood is too smooth to fall like that. It’s too light—too close to home. It clings to my neck and runs down my shoulders even when gravity coaxes it downwards. It pools in pockets along my collarbones before collapsing under its own collective weight.

 _Splat. Splat. Splat._ Why am I doing this again? The reflection that was once so clear is totally dark. Is that why? I can’t see him… The one always staring back. How did you get this way? Why can’t you turn around? Why don’t you just _gouge out your eyes_ , and see if you can still feel it?

I shake out my fingers over the sink, saturating the ceramic with the final dainty slaps. It’s cool on my fingers. It’s a fast cold, despite everything.

I wait. Maybe this time, it won’t happen. Maybe this time, I’ll _stay_ blind. Maybe I’ll never have to look into that mirror again.

I hear it. It’s coming from inside my skull—a soft, bemoaning bubbling. It grows louder. It fills the orbitals like water on a stove that’s far too hot. Clumps drip from my fingertips, all the while a sickening cacophony of singing flesh fills my ears. My face is heavy. Wet. There’s something there that shouldn’t be.

And then, I see him.

He’s staring back at me—wide-eyed, and shirtless. His mouth hangs halfway open, and his lips don’t move, though his breaths echo like jet engines. He’s soaked in a balaclava of blood, smeared with a paste that can only be described as congee-like.

He looks at me. And I look at him.

His eyes are brown.


	2. I

I

“What the fuck are you staring at?”

Amat’s elbow hits me in the side, and my eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights. I blink away the pink in my vision, catching half his narrow face in my field of view. I need to look at the barista—the menu, the register. I need to decide what the fuck I’m going to order. But back there—

“It’s a girl again, isn’t it?”

This time, my head whips around. I gnarl my face at Amat. I mean, she’d only hear if he _screamed_ it, but his bark has always been louder than his bite.

“Shut _up_.” I blink again, trying to focus on coffee. I don’t even like coffee… Amat! Right. Motherfucker always wins his bets.

The barista wears a scowl, twisting fashionably dark lipstick into a thin line of disapproval. I swear I’ve seen her before: at every other coffee shop Amat deems worthy. He has expensive taste.

“Medium double expresso—”

“Large.”

“ _Large_ double expresso…” I repeat, “And uh, what’s the food like?”

“Horrible,” she coughs.

“Just the expresso, then.”

The barista heaves. It’s a slow, Sunday afternoon, which isn’t always the case on this block. Probably what engineered the attitude, but her personality is preferable to most sorority girls. She fills Amat’s cup. The steam is enough to keep me awake. _God,_ he likes this shit strong. Her nails clack along the sides of the heatproof lining. She’s got some kind of anime character on her fingertips. Incredible, really—the detail. She’s got spunk, and probably a girlfriend.

“$5.95.” The barista shifts her weight, nails clacking along the sparkly countertop. I pull out my card from the back of my phone, tapping it quick and handing Amat the coffee. “Do you want your receipt?”

“I do,” Amat pipes up, snagging it from between those award-winning nails. “I’m keeping track of all the bets he loses.”

She blinks. “I really don’t care.”

Amat takes it on the chin, skipping away to the table least-ringed with spilt bean beverage. The chair screeches something terrible against the tile when I pull it back. I take my seat quickly. Amat chose the better side. Motherfucker. He knows what he’s doing. One sip into his coffee and he’s already on my case.

“So, which one is it?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not telling you.”

“It’s the blonde, isn’t it? You like blondes.”

“Then _clearly_ you don’t need me to answer.”

He peeks around my shoulder, biting his lip as if he has a moniker of stealth. Whatever, there’s no helping him.

Amat’s smile lights up. “She’s got a Howard U tote. She goes to our school.”

“With 30,000 _other_ people.”

“It means she hangs out here! You have to!” He pushes my bicep with his free hand. He really should use two on a drink that size. It’s a miracle he can hold it with arms like cooked capellini. “Don’t tell me you’re chicken?”

I sigh. He really does get on my nerves sometimes. He’s been to every party, every social gathering, hell, half the _dates_ I’ve been on in the last two years and he has the _audacity_ to _imply_ I can’t ask a girl out? Maybe this is why he wins his bets.

I shake my head. “Don’t take this path, dude.”

“I’m feeling particularly tyrannical.”

“Of course you are.”

“How could I not, with this $6 coffee in-hand?”

“What are the stakes?”

“Why…” Amat glances at the ceiling, pretending to give it a king’s thought. “I think two drinks shall suffice.”

“Two whole drinks? Be they caffeinated or alcoholic?”

He nods. “I believe either shall be fair.”

I rise from my chair—the terrible scraping calling the attention of everyone in the corner-side café. Whatever, I’m going to make a scene anyways.

Amat waves as I leave, far from subtle. But he can’t stop smiling.

She’s sitting by the window—aluminum laptop open, Howard U bag faithfully hanging off the metallic back of her chair. The bag itself is canvas, stamped by traditional blue ink. She probably got it for free from her frosh week. Oh god, is she a frosh? What if she’s only seventeen? It’s only November. She could—Wait, wait, wait. It’s not like I’m asking her to _bend over_ on this here table. The bag is kind of worn. There are wrinkles along the sides like it’s been tucked away for years. If she were a freshman, she’d have to live like a zoo animal to batter it that badly in two months. But she can’t be a zoo animal. I mean…look at her.

She’s like crystal. Spots of cubic zirconium catch the light on her necklace, and maybe an earring, but it’s hidden between waves of hair. Part of it is piled up, and the rest drapes over her shoulders in neat streams. Extensions? No, just thick. Her makeup is subtle, shades of brown catching the river-like hues in her irises. And her lip-gloss almost makes me forget it’s practically winter.

I nearly trip as I maneuver through the maze of round-back chairs. Her black turtleneck hugs her form tightly. She thinks it doesn’t reveal much because she’s skinny, but it reveals _everythin_ g. Her waist is done up by a beige, tartan skirt. She re-crosses her legs and picks at a twisted bra-strap she can’t seem to flatten without resetting her turtleneck.

“Have I seen you in biology?”

Her eyes catch mine as they flit up. I’m having a heart attack. I can’t let Amat be right. There are girls. There are hot girls. And there are perfect girls. She, however, is an astronomical unit above all of them.

“I… Professor Železný?”

“Ah, no… Must be confusing you with someone else.” There’s a light on her now—a flicker of curiosity.

“You go to Howard?”

“The one and only.”

“And…you want me to go on a date with you?”

She’s definitely not a first year. “I didn’t say that.”

She looks back down at the blue glow of her laptop. “You didn’t have to.”

Never mind a heart attack, I’ve gone straight to heart failure. My tongue has the weight of lead. Come on! You can do this! Hot girls _know_ they’re hot. This is far from a unique struggle. It’s just…a coffee shop…on a Sunday afternoon… Not my best timing. But when else am I going to see her again? I shake my head.

“I _do_ think you are exceptionally pretty. And I _would_ like to take you out. However, there was _also_ a very real chance you were in my biology class.”

“Was that class Kin 101?”

I nearly stagger from the table. But she’s given me something to work with.

“Should I be insulted you think I’m a first year, or a meathead?”

“You could be both.”

I rest my hands on the pretentious stained oak. She hasn’t got papers out, and her Styrofoam cup is dry. She’s finished doing work—just lolling about on the café wifi. It is pretty slow on campus.

“Care to elaborate?”

“If I spilt my drink on your shirt, I bet it would run right off. And if you have _that_ many moisture-wicking T-shirts at your disposal, you must be some kind of vile gym rat. Second, judging by your _exceptionally_ lackluster approach, you must either be a first-year, or simple. Which is more likely to put you in the kin stream than any other.”

“Not my rippling abs?” I jeer. She’s halfway to laughing.

“Too easy. I prefer boys with a brain.”

“But have you considered,” I lean down further this time. “That I expected you would _enjoy_ calling me out on my total lack of game, therefore sparking a conversation to inflate your ego that would be otherwise impossible with dated compliments.”

She stops and purses her lips.

“Well, if I argue with you further, that’s just giving you what you want.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Then who’s going to put you in your place?”

I shrug. “My friend and I have a wager. If I don’t walk away with at least a Snapchat code, I’ve already lost.”

“You poor thing.”

My eyes dart to the window. The streets are quiet too—people walking pint-sized dogs and running to the store for cheap wine before they close early on Sunday. But there’s something else—a blue light. A reflection.

I stand, relieving the pressure from the café furniture. My weight hasn’t shifted it at all. The sturdiness could be why Amat likes this place. Curse his expensive taste. My wallet is already grieving.

“Well, I did enjoy our conversation. I am sorry to have bothered you, Olivia.”

Her lips part. I catch my reflection in the gloss. I push the wayward brass chairs as I go, ignoring the awful scraping.

There’s no need to check my back. I know she’s looking my way.


	3. 2

2

Inigo’s hands are hot. His palms sweat constantly like he’s come down with a mortal fever. Every time he touches my shoulders, the putrid liquid inevitably paints my skin. And the second his hands move on; the cold comes on. That _is_ what sweat is supposed to do—cool you down. Most people, however, are not as handsy as Inigo.

He blinks at me through a set of thick-rimmed goggles. Hardly necessary for a physical, but the man is an odd one, to say the least.

“Lie down.”

I do as I’m told, pressing my back against the sheer steel of the bench. No sanitary paper or lollipops wait along the walls. The lab is cold. Everything is metal. The smell of alcohol is so astringent it burns every time I breathe. Inigo must be used to it. He spends all his time in here.

There’s a chill in my spine as it registers what it touches. No matter how many times I lay here, it never feels normal. Not like my eyes. When I pluck them out, I know they’re going to come back.

“Breathe normally, and try to relax.” Inigo’s fingers trace my chest. He holds his stethoscope to my heart, listening far longer than he perhaps ought to. What does it sound like? Is it really still beating? If I concentrate, its rhythm runs down my fingertips. My blood is hot—though not as hot as Inigo’s.

He moves on without a word, tearing the stethoscope off and tossing it among his other effects on the stainless-steel tables. This time, he doesn’t knock over any tech or chemicals. But that’s just luck.

He’s not wearing gloves. He pokes my chest directly, just above my heart—first forcefully, and then runs his hands along the skin. Gently… I clench my jaw. Inigo clicks his tongue.

“It’s settling in, but slow. We’ll give it another week. See if it clears up on its own.”

And if it doesn’t? Who am I kidding…? I already know the answer.

Inigo inhales another flat breath, wiping his sweaty palms on his blue apron. It’s flimsy, like his 3-ply medical face mask. He’d need a new one soon enough anyways— best it’s cheap. Though, it’s the only thing in this room that can be defined as such.

Inigo pokes my stomach. “You’re not relaxed enough.” Instinctively, I suck in. How am I supposed to relax? On this table? In this room? After what he…? What he…? Why is it so hard to remember? “I already know the exact percentage of bone, fat, muscle, fucking cumquats in your entire body. You have nothing to worry about.”

I focus my anxiety into gritting my teeth. If I shatter them, maybe that will use up the energy tightening my stomach muscles into knots. Inigo places his palms on my skin again. He frowns. It’s not perfect, but he’ll make do.

“This is important, you know?” He burrows under my ribcage. Breathe normally. “The process is very difficult to monitor, and even more difficult to get right. For your own safety, we have to make sure there are no unforeseen side effects.” I clamp down on my teeth harder. He pokes around my middle, pressing earnestly, swirling my intestines around from the outside. “Any discomfort?”

I manage to shake my head. It’s nothing beyond the usual.

His hands fall below my naval. I try not to brace myself. This time, there is no pain when he presses down. This time, I feel nothing.

I open my eyes.

“Any discomfort?”

“…No.”

“That’s good!” he cheeps. “Very good indeed.”

I have to pause. Is it good? What if I just can’t feel it anymore? What it it’s still there? What if it’s killing me? Yes…killing me… I could stomach the pain for that.

“Alright, sit back up.” I do so, relieved to be free of the steel table. Surely there are bruises on my back, but they will be gone in a moment. “I’m less worried about the rest, but we’ve got all this time together.” He plucks another instrument from the haphazard pile. Just a flashlight. I blink, prepared for the light.

Inigo checks the response of my pupils—how quickly they dilate and shrink. Unfortunately, no amount of eye gouging has done anything to stunt their spectacular performance. Next, I turn my head up. He shines the light up my nostrils, struggling to hold my head back with his diminutive stature. When my neck snaps back into place, I shake my spine out, shuffling about the disturbed pieces of hair. Inigo points the flashlight in my mouth.

“You catch a cold?” he frowns.

“You intubated me.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” he clucks. “So easy to forget these days.”

There’s no wind, but a draft springs up. Goosebumps perk on my arms. Somewhere, a door is open.

Inigo drops his eyelids. “Alright. You know what comes next.” He dons a glove.

With an uncaring haggardness, I stand from the galvanized bench. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I understand the danger for this—not like my stomach. It’s not like the villi in my intestines will suddenly and cancerously multiply. No, they don’t reproduce fast enough for that to be a risk. At least, not in the first couple weeks. The only thing Inigo really worries about is the prostate.

I rest my elbow on the steel and wait. I’ve found it best to take like a professional. It is, oddly, one of the few things that make me think of the real world—the normal world. There’s a thousand other men out there getting prostate exams for the first time, and they feel just as awkward.

Inigo doesn’t enjoy it. His fingers suction themselves out of my ass faster than I can finish contemplating the futility of it all.

I turn around. The latex of his glove snaps as he tears it off his hand, then he drops it on the ground. I scowl. He’s not going to pick it up. And it won’t be _my_ disgust he has to worry about.

“Seems normal.”

I sigh and adjust the drawstring of my pants. They’re too loose and too long—medical-grade. Why the fuck they’re used outside a real hospital when they’re so incompetent, I have no idea. My first step is nervous. Even the hems are loose, and I’ve taken a spill in them more than once.

“How much longer do we have to do this?”

Inigo offers a solid _tsk-tsk._ “You can’t rush perfection.”

The word burns a hole in my skull. But I’m not. I can’t be… He’s… I scratch my hands against the fog hanging in the alcohol-soaked air.

“I understand.” Is there even a point in prodding? There’s no lump or nodule I can check for in Inigo’s plan—no size of lie I can determine with a few taps in the right places. There is no end to the tunnel.

Inigo scoots in front of the bench, ducking as my line of sight drops lower. His face elongates, like he’s surprised. Goddamn sociopath, he is. Who else drops shit-stained gloves on the tile of a medical center? Who else has absolutely no concept of consequence or bounds?

A hand reaches up again, clean, thank god, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I don’t move.

“There’s blood…on your cheek.”

Quickly, I swat him away. I clench my jaw. Don’t tell _him._

“It’s nothing.”

Inigo draws the pause out longer, then shrugs. “If you say so.”

Suddenly, the door creaks open. The hair on my arm stands completely erect. My breath wavers in my throat. I can’t hear his footsteps. And I know.

There is a man in the doorway. He stands just over six-feet; much taller than the man of science hunched over the steel table. And he’s not wearing an apron. Rather, his clothes are leather and plastic—something innocuous from afar until you try to drive a knife through the fabric. His gaze tightens beneath a crown of black hair. It’s cut perfectly, slicked _perfectly_ , except for one strand that sometimes falls between his eyes. But he likes it like that.

Tension ripples through his jaw. Even his chest heaves. I see the muscles convulse from here. His eyes fall on the slather of blue latex marring the floor. Ever so slightly, he cocks his head. Then, his gaze falls on me.

I hold the table for balance. Why? Why can’t I stop shaking? Why won’t his eyes release me?

I breathe when they flit to Inigo, their steel piercing right through him. The surgeon hunches further.

“How many times must I _implore_ you _not_ to make a mess, Ferreira?” he states. “Clean it up, then give the boy to me.”


	4. II

II

There are few good decisions I’ve made in my life, but living with Amat is one of them. Kid is a goddamn superstar. Cooks, cleans, and if he’s too busy burrowing into a _Starcraft_ tournament, he hires a maid. Luckily, his parents have money. And even luckier, he’s smart enough to make it himself.

Amat got his start writing software for some meme generator, then he moved on to phone security, and he’s been paying rent and tuition with it ever since. I can’t explain what either of them _do_ , but I do enjoy the healthy dose of memes on my phone, and I guess the extra security doesn’t hurt.

Me, on the other hand, I’m just happy I’m socially capable enough to snag a friend like him. By the time I’m out of this institution, I’ll be 30-years in debt, with nary a plan how to get the fuck out of it.

Amat waves from his beanbag chair, one of his headphones misplaced so we can hear each other talk.

“Chip me.”

I hold out the bag. His hand digs in, rooting around the orange sea until he unearths the perfect triangle. It falls into his mouth with a triumphant crunch. If only I could convince him to eat more healthy food. Kid smothers himself in junk all day, but never gains any weight. He really is some kind of featherweight alien.

I watch his gameplay, my own controller nestled safe in the folds on my sweatpants. He’s entered a match far beyond my skill level, and I’m happy to give my fingers a break and stuff myself with the devil’s cheesy triangles. I worked out today—I deserve this. Although, Amat’s already eaten most of them.

“Get back here you little shit!” he barks over voice chat. They fire back. I catch bits of crackling laughter and shouting from the bowels of the headset, but it hardly sounds like English.

My phone buzzes. I wipe the dust on my sweats before picking it up—I’m not a _total_ animal. It buzzes again. Two blue messages light up the screen, obscuring my carefully chosen screensaver captured from _Scooby-Doo and the Alien Invaders_. Their bulbous green heads stare back from beyond the text bubbles.

Brian. My heart drops a little. I half-hoped it would be that girl from the café, though I didn’t leave her my number. Hell, I didn’t even give her my name. My frown wins in spite of the jovial nature of the message.

Brian

Yo, you free Friday?

Brian

Carson wants to have something called “Halloween 2.” Drinks (sorta) included

Well, he’s got my attention. It was a real shame Carson missed out on “Halloween 1.” Horrible hurricane hit the coast of South Carolina. He was grounded, at home with his family, much longer than anticipated. He must have some intense costume. Motherfucker won’t admit it, but I’m sure he cosplays. I text back.

Happy to bring booze. Guessing he’s expecting costumes?

Brian

Haha, yeah. Whatever you’ve got. November is kinda shit tho

Amat smashes his controller on the carpet, which luckily muffles the blow.

“Goddamit! Fucking campers—”

“Amat,” I call. He needs to take a break. I swear he hasn’t moved since this morning. “You wanna hit this thing called ‘Halloween 2?’”

He cocks a brow. “Where?”

“Brian’s.”

A smile creeps back onto his childish face. For all his nobility, there are few things Amat loves more than getting _properly_ fucked up. And I can’t blame him. Brian has a good pad. His place with Carson is basically an unofficial frat—big enough that a costume party outside of October won’t feel like an abomination.

Amat licks his lips. “Tomorrow?”

“The very same. It’s a costume party.” He rubs his hands together.

“I’ve been waiting for this day.”

“Halloween was two weeks ago.”

“I! Have been! Waiting!” Amat rockets up from his beanbag chair. “Little do you know, I have recently come into the possession of the _perfect_ set of costumes, courtesy of one _very_ prestigious Howard U chemistry department.” He clicks, “So perfect, in fact, I doubt your feeble mind can handle their potency!”

It’s fucking cold on a November night. The thought of snow hangs in the air. Just two weeks after Halloween, and it’s hardly the time to parade around like a spooky slut. I close my eyes and shiver, trudging alongside Amat on-foot to Brian’s promised banger. At least I’m warm, but I’m already mourning the loss of sexy nurses and sexy cats and sexy doorframes that are usually apparent at these shindigs.

Amat scampers in front of me in a bright yellow jumpsuit, his goggles from chem lab strapped under his hood. He runs and skids along the sidewalk, nearly falling into an empty traffic lane. I have a six-pack in-hand, and despite the wealth of pre-drinks already wreaking havoc in my stomach; it is my moral obligation to arrive at Carson’s party with the booze unscathed.

As we arrive at the door, I stifle a hiccup. It’s only 9:30. God, how am I this drunk already? Amat’s already falling all over himself. I haul him up the stairs, holding onto his shoulder.

We catch Brian just after letting in another guest. He wails and throws out a beefy arm. Goddamn, he looks even bigger than the last time we worked out together.

“You made it!” he cries. He’s done up in a striped T. His pants are hiked all the way up his waist, and he must have time-traveled to the 80’s to find those glasses. I catch his hand to shake it, hanging on longer to make up for Amat’s lack of coordination. “And…what are you supposed to be?”

I stifle another hiccup and gesture at the gem-like mess adorning my body. The jeans don’t do much, but Amat’s squeezed me into a turquoise sequin vest and an equally blue shirt. He took the additional liberty of painting blue sparkles on my cheeks—enough to look normal, just in case.

Brian’s eyes flash over at Amat, and then, he gets it.

“Walter White!” he booms, “And you’re the meth! Holy shit, Carson’s gonna love this.”

Amat offers him a bow. “Anything for the man of the hour? Halloween boy? Whatever.” Brian nods at the beer. He points inside.

“Liquor table’s where it always is.” I catch his handshake one more time, then drag Amat into the haze of flashing lights.

It smells like roadkill already. The air is dense with the stench of weed, and my boots stick on the floor from years of dried up drinks. The music resonates with my skull, liquefying my brains even faster.

I’m in love.

Amat falls off my arm the minute he lays eyes on our friend Melanie, wrapped somewhat lazily in a Greek toga. She’s an easy target—probably the tallest girl here. He dangles off her like one of her dollar-store accessories.

I fight through waves of people in slightly less-slutty-than-usual outfits and beating R&B music to the kitchen table near the back. Successful, I plop down the six-pack. Cheap beer, but better to bring something than nothing.

Luckily, Amat and I aren’t the only ones willing to contribute. The linoleum surface is decorated with glass of every color: hard liquor, mixers, classic red solos and a punch bowl rank enough to taint the city’s water.

I try the punch immediately. It tastes like boggy licorice, and it’s warm—despite the multitude of ice cubes, and so, _so_ much stronger than it should be. Damn, this stuff is dangerous. But it’s only 9:30, so I crack open one of the beers and retreat from the bar, the space I once stood quickly filling with thirsty students.

I push through the miasma in search of Carson. I find him, dressed like a period-accurate pirate with a feathered hat and everything. I congratulate him on the party, and for surviving the hurricane in South Carolina.

“ _Arggg_!” he growls, “I am the champion of the sea! A little _storm_ ain’t gonna sink me, savvy?”

My lip curls into an impressed grin. So, he didn’t make this costume _before_ he got stuck? Or was it just a happy coincidence?

I can’t stand nursing this beer any longer and down it as soon as Carson lulls in conversation. I’m already losing my buzz. He certainly can talk, and he’s _definitely_ too drunk to be maintaining _that_ accent _that_ well. Maybe it’s just a theatre kid thing.

“You gotta meet the cast!” he beams, “Best crew that ever did sail this side of the ocean? Terrence! Terrence get the fuck over here and do the line!”

There are a lot of people here I don’t know, probably from the play. I wouldn’t watch them if Carson didn’t get everyone he knows a free ticket, but there _is_ some comedic values in his shows.

“Oh man, that last improv sesh… Aw Terrence you _have_ to do the line.”

That’s my cue. Plays, I can stand, but to sit through some inside joke about improv practice—I have to be a _lot_ drunker than this.

I fight my way back to the kitchen through three black cats and one Rihanna song. Amat’s still on Melanie. She does push-ups while he lounges on her back. I feel a twinge of jealousy in my sternum. He never lets me train with him like that. Hell, he _cries_ if he has to get sweaty.

I catch Brian at the table pouring another healthy dose of vodka into the punch. He tightens, trying to contain his smile.

“Did _I_ do that?” he mimics, pulling on an invisible pair of suspenders. But there are no laughs from the surrounding ladies. “Come on! Steve Urkel? How are y’all not getting it?”

“I thought it was funny.”

He frowns. “You didn’t laugh.”

I hiccup. “Meth… Doesn’t speak?”

He nods. He’s taken it.

I can’t turn down a freshly spiked punch. I maneuver the weighty ladle through the red vat, rousing bits of fruit and only picking the ones that still look somewhat like food. Damn, this thing is sticky. It’s much too big for the mouth of the solo cup. I concentrate. It will take all of my mental facilities to get this pour right.

“Holy shit, can you take any longer?”

A girl taps her foot, staring me down like a pissed off western sheriff, a black bow placed cartoonishly on top of her head. A white apron is tied over a checkered blue summer dress, and an empty solo cup waits in her hand.

The punch dribbles in thick streams over my grip, full raspberries and orange slices splattering onto the floor. Olivia.

“Oh,” she gasps, “It’s—You’re that guy.”

She’s… I blink away the rose-coloring. But holy shit, she’s the hottest girl I’ve ever seen. Her makeup is still so simple—natural—like some sort of K-pop star. Her thighs pucker the slightest bit over the lip of her thigh-highs. And her waist… It’s cinched so tight I swear I could wrap one hand around it.

Twice in one week? I have to be the luckiest bastard to ever walk the earth.

I stumble over my tongue.

“So, we meet again.”

She smiles, stretching her lip-gloss. “How do you know Carson?”

“Brian’s a good friend. You?”

“I’m not much of a theatre kid, but I do book half their tickets.”

“Never seen you at a show.”

“Never seen your name on a ticket either.”

“Perhaps because you don’t know it.”

I glance behind me. Melanie reaches her thirty-fourth push-up with Amat, and she’s still going strong.

“Clever trick you did with the window.”

“So, you admit I am clever.” I finish pouring my punch, stomping my sneakers through the mess. I quell my trembling to pour Olivia a portion. She hasn’t caught on. Smooth.

“You are…more than I expected, I admit. Enough…that if you asked nicely…” Her eyes drift down my form. She’s looking. Amat’s jacket is far too tight. “…That on a night as _special_ as Halloween 2, I might just give you the time of day.”

“And what time is it, exactly?”

Olivia twists her glossy lips into a smirk. Soundlessly, she raises her drink and chugs the whole thing. Her lips free, she spits an ice cube directly back into the bowl.

Her fingers wrap around my wrist. “Time to dance.”


	5. 3

3

“Again.”

My knees are weak when I endeavor to stand. My hand catches the ground. I attempt to rouse myself once more. Just stand. You can do it. Just…fucking stand.

I wobble, finally erect on the rubber mats. I don’t think they’re needed, but here they are—reserved for this room. But they hinder my foundation. Even when we first walked in—before I took a single fist to the face or to the gut—it was hard to stand here. However, the floor isn’t the only explanation.

Crow scowls at me impatiently. “What are you waiting for, Kohi? That weak already?”

I don’t answer him. I have to buy all the time I can. Crow runs a half-gloved hand through his hair, pushing back any strands that may have loosened during the brawl. But he’s wrong. He still looks perfect. There isn’t even a speck of dust on him. What is this supposed to accomplish?

Nothing. That has to be the answer, right? All he wants is to beat me senseless, to grind my face into the ground with his size-eleven boot; a boot that’s far too precise to even be shit-covered.

“Inigo…said…I should be taking it easy,” I pant.

There are no lines of age on Crow’s face—only signs of experience. I can’t guess how old he is. Thirty? Forty? Every time I look at him, my vision blurs, unable to focus, as if his presence is too much for my commonplace brain.

He clicks his tongue. “Inigo has always cared too much for you, you know that. What he wants is seldom good.”

I try to bite my tongue, but the words are already out of my mouth.

“At least Inigo isn’t beating me into the dirt.”

This time, Crow _really_ smiles. It’s hard to describe what it looks like, especially through the fog. He’s a ghost of sorts—a ghost that knows one thing, and one thing only. But he knows _everything_ about you.

“No…” he grins, “Inigo simply cuts you open. Makes you his plaything. Do I need to show you the drives?”

“No, sir.” I shudder. A photo buried under blue windows on Inigo’s desktop haunts me. Bone… Blood… Brown fat and veins clipped by thick plastic… The fog takes over again.

Crow lowers his stance. I bend my knees. He likes to aim for the jaw first—disorient his opponent. But he knows I know that. My block is useless when he flies across the room and burrows a leather-bound fist into my gut.

Sharp cracking rips through my chest. Three ribs? Four? Fuck, he’s probably shattered my breastbone. I skid back, coughing, swinging madly at the space he once stood as if it’s an offensive move.

I clutch at my side. The pain… It’s just in my head now. How many ribs? One? Two? …Zero. I grimace. Crow’s right. I have no excuse.

I swing at him. Crow artfully leans with the curve of my fist, ducking under it with his hands folded neatly behind his back. I swing again—an uppercut. His jaw dances to the side. I have to play dirty. I step between his foundation. He can’t retaliate in time. My ankle catches his—boots on boots. I feel solid in actual clothes despite the cover of black.

Crow falters, but doesn’t fall. He grins. “Good.” His fist rockets towards my face. Now—

He connects with my jaw. The crack splits my ears, and I topple back from the mat, falling.

My head… It’s hot—ringing. It’s all stinging pain now; all unexpected. I prop myself up on one elbow. My other hand manages to touch my face. It’s heating—approaching the surface of the sun—trying to correct itself, but it doesn’t know how. I’m sure my body will figure it out given time, but Crow is an impatient man.

I grip the lower half of my face tight enough that my fingers divot the skin. Then, I yank the plate to the right. The bones shatter again. Breaking glass echoes inside my skull. Muscle convulses next to my ears. And then, the sinew connects. It takes hold of the fragments of my twisted, Quasimodo-like jawbone, and realigns. The bones reach out to each other, reuniting. And then, the inside of my head is quiet.

I stand again. Crow smiles. As many times as he’s shattered my bones into unrecognizable forms, I think he likes me pretty.

The fog has trouble obscuring him when I stare too long. There’s something… something that boils my blood. My breath stagnates as I recall that somehow, for some reason, I want him _dead_.

I clench my newly healed jaw. I don’t have much more strength left in me. So, I run at him. He readies his arms, but I slide. I can’t go far on the rubber mats. In fact, I half-turn over, sort of rolling along the bellows of the training room until I pop up at his back. But I _do_ stand. I stand before he turns. And when he does, my fist connects with his neck—hardly the blow to the mandible I wanted—nor a solid hit to the trachea. But with the force I carry, I must at least rupture his jugular.

Crow staggers one step. Black eyes flick up as he spits a hefty globule of blood and phlegm between his teeth. This is what you want, right? You wanted me to hit you. To be strong. To—

A fucking train cracks me on the nose. I let my guard down. I shouldn’t have… Blood patters on the rubber like a torrential summer storm. I instinctively cover the lesion. My head is on fire again, but fire doesn’t pierce the fog. It’s just an added distraction.

Suddenly, my feet are gone. I’m prone, my own blood congealing around my cheek. Crow’s behind me—wrenching both arms behind my back, weighing himself over my torso so I’m immobile.

“Good move,” he sneers. He pulls tighter at my joints. I grit my teeth. He’s congratulating me? The tension in my shoulder stagnates. It’s his grip that’s the worst. The blood retreats from my hands, unable to get through the shackles. The flesh is already dying—halfway to bursting under the pressure.

Do I speak? What does he want me to say? What is the _point_ of all this?

“I…I won’t do it again.”

He snaps my wrist. It caves, not unlike a tree branch. It implodes like a pop can in a set of steel jaws. I gave the wrong answer.

He keeps squeezing. A broken bone isn’t enough to get the message across. It aches, except for the fragments, which push and pull under his grip. They tear through my forearm, rupturing my veins, and blood dribbles helplessly onto my back.

“I very well expect you to, Kohi. Do not disappoint me.”

I lay still. His grip tenses further. Crow’s fingers close in on each other. Why? He has all the power? What else can he want? The blood from my nose sticks against my cheek. I can smell again. It makes me sick with salt. I raise my head the slightest from the mat. And then, suddenly, Crow releases my crushed wrist. He slams my face back to the rubber. It’s soft enough my jaw doesn’t break. It would have on the concrete below. I know that, for some reason.

He removes himself from my torso. My head rings. Somehow, somewhere, I must have done something right.

One more time, I struggle to my feet. My legs work, but my head…it’s been boiled in stew. The little things heal fast. But the lingering nerves… Who knows how long that will take to get used to?

Crow waits six-feet down, arms crossed, peering at my left wrist. I hardly notice the patter of blood through the rest. My hand holds on by a single flap of skin. It stretches under its own weight, and before I can catch it, the limb plunks onto the mat.

Bile rises in my throat. It’s part of me—separate, yet the same. And he took it. What is its fate? Will it simply turn to ash?

“Leave it.”

My wrist bubbles like a fourth-grade science project. The trickle of blood goes cold. The bone grows first, nerves and connective tissue swirling around it for support until even my fingernails return immaculately.

I step back, and Crow scoops up the hand: another victim of another battle. One finger is slightly less soaked than the others, so he holds it by the pinky, leaving the dripping stump to spatter along the floor. Crow does not return to stance. Perhaps, he doesn’t want to fight me with one, bloody hand. Perhaps, these clothes are new.

“That’s enough for today.”

My breath releases. He meets my boiling wrist again. His cheeks tighten just the slightest—displeased.

“Inigo appears to be right about one thing. Perhaps you should be…what you call… _taking it easy_.”


	6. III

III

My head is warm—soupy. But like it’s been properly re-heated on the stove and not in the microwave. The heat is in my neck too. I burn through my punch cup, and then another and another. It crisps my thoughts so nicely—caramelized.

My hands, contrarily, are almost _too_ hot. Adrenaline pulses through my fingers alongside my dizzying blood. The heat has nowhere to go except into another body—Olivia’s body, as she so feverishly pulls me around her waist.

She mouths the words to Missy Elliot blasting over the house speakers, pilfering another sip of punch. Do I have a cup? I don’t know… It’s gone. Somewhere in the swarm. And my hands are otherwise occupied.

The fluff of her skirt brushes against my jeans with every sway of her hips. I can’t tear my eyes from her movement. She’s lost in her own world, practically head-banging to the music. Olivia reaches over her shoulder. She rests her palm on the back of my neck, like I’m some sort of stiff support to slide down as the beat drops.

She goes down like rain. I almost wish I could feel more of her. But like Amat, I have too big a soft spot for getting properly fucked up.

She’s exquisite. Ethereal! And yet, she drops to the floor and wades through year-old beer slop like a professional. She has to be smart too. Am I fucking this up? Oh god, I’m fucking this up. I shouldn’t be grinding on a girl like _this_ at some stupid late-Halloween party. I need to do something meaningful—take her out to some indie movie or get her tickets to some performance art show she probably loves.

I shuffle my posture, strangled by Amat’s jacket. My biceps ripple like over-fed boa constrictors in the sequined sleeves. I forget I can’t put my arms over my head without tearing it at the seams.

I struggle to slide the cumbersome fabric off while Olivia whips her hair, heedless of wherever my face may be. I keep my hold on her with one hand. The other balls up the metallic excuse for a costume while my eyes search the crowd for Amat.

He’s on the pool table, posing like Kate Winslet in _Titanic_ with his jumpsuit half-unzipped, a slim-fit white T-shirt revealed behind the costume. His goggles push his mop of black hair out of his face.

“Amat!” I doubt he can hear me, but I toss the garment his way. I think I hit the table, but I can’t see. Not when Olivia yanks on my neck again.

She rotates—suddenly interested in my face. The song’s changed. Perhaps she’s bored enough to glance my way. The sparkles in her makeup catch the red light. Olivia’s hands find my arms seconds after they’re uncovered. She plays a tough game, but mopey sapiosexuals can’t be her _only_ type. Goosebumps pepper her forearms as she slides up, coming to rest at my neck again. Her fingers clasp. She’s got me hooked.

Olivia’s chin glances my shoulder in her kitten-heels. Her breath pours into my ear. Suddenly, she stumbles, but I hold her up despite my own instability. Her nails dig into my arm.

“Careful.”

She teeters back onto her feet, then nods. “I’m tired.”

I loop an arm through hers, leading her to a banister. The house’s seats are fully occupied. She plops her weight against the creaky, 70s wood.

I rest a hand above her. Now, if only the world would stop spinning… Or at least cool the fuck down.

I lock eyes with Amat on the other side of the room. He finally catches sight of Olivia. He leaps and points excitedly to the crowd around him, but his shenanigans are beneath Olivia’s notice. She’s locked on her phone screen, checking the time.

“I think… I think it’s time I head back.” She inhales again, attempting to sober up. “I’m gonna call an Uber.”

“You wanna grab your friends?”

She shakes her head. “They’re not going my way.”

Okay. I mean… It’s only…1:13? That’s not _that_ bad for a Friday night. Bars are still open. Last call is far from called. She’ll be safe—

“Come with me.”

I blink. Did I hear that right? Come…with her? “To your house?” I stutter.

“Where else would we go, dummy?” She inputs her address into the app. “My roommate’s out. We _should_ beat her back…if you wanna stay.”

I swallow, then nod. “Where…?”

“East end.”

Not my direction, but not unreasonable to catch a ride from in the morning. I pull out my phone and fight my numb fingerprints to unlock it. Luckily, Amat’s messages are already open, and I don’t stumble into posting my personal business as a status again.

Going back with mean café girl. Catch you at home.

My phone dings immediately. Amat stares me down, upright on the pool table.

Amat

Lmk when youre home safe dickhead

I send him a thumbs-up from across the room, which he promptly returns.

I scoot my drunk ass into a silver Toyota Camry. Olivia climbs into the seat on the far side. I shut the door behind us, rubbing my hands as the outside chill is chased away. The lightest of snow drifts cross the windshield as we drive a solid twenty minutes east, where a low-rise condo waits.

Olivia laughs at something on her phone as she grabs my wrist again. Her fingers are cold now. Maybe the weather… Maybe the drinks are wearing off. She pulls me into the lobby. It’s pristine, and suddenly, I feel a lot drunker than I did a minute ago. She presses the button for the elevator thrice, tapping her foot. She undoes the bow in her hair and crinkles it in her palm.

She doesn’t let go of my hand the whole ride to the eleventh floor, nor the short trip down the hall, _nor_ when she roots around in her jacket pockets for her keys. The lock clicks, and she winks at me before barreling through the fire-safe door.

Her apartment is exactly like I imagine. The open-concept living space is decorated with an assortment of obscure art, early 2000s boy band posters and every succulent known to man. I bend over to take my shoes off, but quickly give up on the laces and force my heels free, dragging my socks halfway down with them. They lay strewn on a multi-colored rug surely acquired from some we-pay-our-workers-fairly business effort.

Olivia throws off her heels and stockings, exposing a tattoo of a bluebird on her ankle. It’s holding a cake.

“What’s that?” I giggle.

“Oh,” she waves it off, “My first job. A stupid decision, really.”

Olivia dashes to her sink and pours herself a cup of water. She drinks it far faster than any alcohol I’ve seen her with tonight. I rest against the kitchen table, admiring a basil plant affectionately named ‘Herbert,’ complete with a popsicle label. Suddenly, my throat is parched. I wouldn’t mind—

Before I have a chance to ask, she’s on me. My back collides with the boring, beige drywall, rocking a portrait decorated with dry rosacae. She’s stronger than she looks.

Olivia draws my face to hers somewhat gentler. Her lip-gloss has a taste… Strawberry? Peach? Something sweet. My hands find her waist impulsively. One doesn’t encompass it. But two…

She unties the bow holding her apron, breathing through her connection with me. I lift my back from the wall, but she slams me down again. The artwork falls with the clatter of cheap wood. Her grip tenses around my upper back, and she draws my waist in. Hell, _I_ even fit in one of her arms. She likes that, because she draws her focus down my chest next and rests a palm on my stomach.

She smiles. “You sure you’re not a kin student?”

That’s enough time on the wall. There’s a bed in here somewhere—

Olivia completes the equation. My grip still on her, she pushes at the nearer of two doors, leaving the light switch as is. She flops among the pillows and reaches to what I assume is a power outlet. A string of fairy lights spring to life around the bed posters.

A double is a decent size: just enough space, but forcefully cozy. I can’t see much in the dark, but her desk is piled high with books and a few sweaters she hasn’t gotten around to putting away. Her duvet crumples messily. I shove it clear the minute my knees touch the mattress.

Olivia leads me down with her—slobbering all over each other as I balance and she takes free rein of my traps. My breath grows heavier. The cold of ebbing winter is chased out of my lungs entirely. Her lips part every time we break, releasing crystal breaths. Her eyes swirl like river-depths. God, I’m so lost. And I’m _definitely_ fucking this up.

Her fingers linger at the bottom of my meth-blue shirt. I oblige her request, pulling the sweaty thing over my head in a well-practiced maneuver. The lighting isn’t _great_ , but she smiles at the validity of her gym rat claim. To be fair, I never told her she was _wrong._

I kiss her again. She traces my back, palms sweating. I have to get this Alice dress off somehow… I reach under her skirt, but there’s no pathway to the waist, and I can’t say I’m totally sold on chaffing myself raw on yards of tulle.

Olivia frees herself to undo the dress on her own. The puffy thing goes down at the foot of the bed. Left in T-shirt-weight underwear, the fairy lights catch pockets of her skin. The faint line of a tricep head catches the glow, and the curve of a quad. She’s strong, but there’s a heavenly softness over her seldom found on the rack.

She smirks knowingly. I’ve tried to play it smooth but… No. She seems to revel in my loss for words. If she wants to be revered, well…

I bury my nose between her breasts. Olivia laughs so hard she snorts. Even her sweat smells sweet. Still chuckling, she pulls me back by the hair. I catch her gaze flit down to my jeans. Her jaw clenches. Her thighs shuffle against the sheets and she bites the inside of her lip. I smirk, fighting to keep _some_ blood in my brain. I’m a gentleman, haze or no haze. I don’t want her hankering. I want her fucking _yearning._

I lower myself along her lithe form, kissing her collarbones as I go. My index finger hooks the elastic of her underwear. I tease, moving slowly. Her thighs rub together. If I play my cards right, she’ll sing like a cricket. My salivary glands make up for the potent dehydration. So, she dyes her hair…

There’s a click in the hall, and Olivia hastily scoots against the headboard.

“Shit!” She rolls out of bed in a panic, thudding against the shag carpet.

I furrow my brows. “What—?”

She leaps out and smacks a hand over my mouth. “Shh!” Olivia drops to a whisper. “My roommate’s home. Fuck… Aghhhh I can’t let her know you’re here.”

I speak through her clasped fingers, “Why not?”

“Let’s just say she has some _privacy_ issues.” Olivia tosses my shirt at me. “I’ll distract her, you need to sneak the fuck out.”

I hesitate to pull it over my shoulders. I can’t just let her go—not when I have a chance _not_ to fuck it all up.

“When will I see you again?”

She pauses in her haste. Olivia twists her lips. She finishes pulling on an oversized T and retrieves a sharpie from her desk. She snags my wrist and uncaps the marker.

Ten numbers bleed from the tip onto my inner forearm. Is that a 3? Or an 8?

“I’ll distract her. _Please_.”

I nod, keeping quiet. Olivia peers out the door. I snap myself into focus despite the view of her ass as she bends. She looks at me one more time, then chases her roommate into her bedroom.

I catch their voices as Olivia interrogates her about some slam poetry show. I keep my head low behind the kitchen table, snatching up my shoes from the foyer. I’m sober enough to have recovered _some_ stretch of competence, and I turn the door handle.

I ease it locked as quietly as I can from the outside. It’s up to Olivia to cover my tracks. Hastily, I throw on my shoes, smacking the elevator button repetitively in case it always takes three tries.

No one comes to the door. My heartbeat settles, and I stare down at ten numbers sloppily scribbled into my brain.


	7. 4

4

The metal chair screams against the tile. I fail to conceal my grimace. Some unpleasantries, apparently, are much harder to get used to.

I keep my hands folded below the slick table, restraining my vision from glancing too curiously at the other participants. My palms sweat. I should be hungry. But the silence in the air is overly filling.

Inigo offers a grin from my left. He’s brought work with him to the table, and immediately returns to pouring over charts after making a polite greeting.

Minutes tick on. This room is equally stale as the lab. The table is wood, but everything else has the sparkle of steel. There are no plates, no glasses, no center piece… Just a clock staring me down. _Tick, tick, tock._

A hand grips my shoulder. I shudder, but keep my seat.

“How are you feeling?” Crow hisses. I swallow. He’s squeezing too hard.

“Recovered.” Slowly, I raise my left hand and flex it into a fist repeatedly, demonstrating a full range of movement. Crow’s grip relaxes. His chair squeals as he takes a seat to my right. He lounges casually despite the unwelcoming nature of the furniture.

“I’m glad to hear it. Inigo tells me you’ve made excellent progress.”

“Excellent indeed,” the little man pipes up.

My eyes flicker between them. “Is that what this meeting is about?”

“Meeting?” Crow scoffs, “Can’t we just sit down and enjoy each other’s company?”

No. Of course not. How could he even think such a thing?

I nod.

“I wanted to celebrate your achievements today.” Crow claps, and the door swings open. The tinny room fills with creaking wheels. A maintenance girl wheels three dinner sets beside Crow, saying nothing. The lab can’t support many maintenance workers with its deep secrecy, but Crow won’t tidy Inigo’s messes.

She looks across the room, resting her gaze on none of us. One eye rolls lazily to the inside. The crew is so good at their jobs I often forget they’re blind. It’s easier to mop up blood when you don’t know whose it is.

She offers a slight bow, then leaves the cart alone.

Crow retrieves a bottle of pinot noir from the top, pouring three glasses. Inigo ignores his completely. I clamp down on my jaw. To lose myself in the liquid would be a blessing. One glass won’t do it, though. And Crow would never let me. Inigo wouldn’t either—not while I’m recovering. Fuck, can I even get drunk anymore? Or am I perpetually cursed to sobriety too?

Crow finishes pouring his glass, then passes around three plates. Each is different. Inigo actually looks up from his work to the scent of fried fish, and he digs in. Crow has prepared himself some kind of steak. It must be his favorite. Or not… Maybe he’s lying. He just _wants_ me to think he likes steak.

What _is_ my favorite food? What was the last thing I ate? I blink, hard. The smell of gravy and braised meat penetrates my nostrils. It drapes over a bed of mashed potatoes and a tangle of green salad like a Thanksgiving feast.

Crow raises his glass. “I propose a toast.” He eyes Inigo first, burning through him until the surgeon brushes his paperwork aside.

“A toast, yes!” He scowls, “To what?”

Crow pauses, “To the strength of blood.”

Inigo raises his glass. I follow suit, as quiet as possible at the head of the table. Inigo and Crow both drink from their glasses. The wine came from the same bottle. It can’t be spiked, unless it was in my glass from the start.

Oh no. I’ve hesitated. Crow’s black gaze falls on me. I sip the wine, choking as my haste pushes it down my trachea. I redeem myself with another, and this time, my epiglottis functions. His tension falls, and he digs into his plate.

I pick up my fork. It’s cheap, although each meal looks fit for a king. This really should be two meals, even three. Have I gotten too skinny again? I haven’t seen a meal with so much flavor since…since… I try the potatoes first. They’re like velvet in my mouth. The salad provides a perfect astringent balance to the fatty gravy. The meat, however, is somewhat tough. The skin crackles poorly—too lean. And as I dig the fork further into the braise, I discover it’s mostly bone.

Curious, I clear some salad to the side. The meat takes an immediate shape. An immediate, _familiar_ shape.

My fork quavers above the ceramic.

It’s been pounded and roasted nearly beyond recognition, but not destroyed. If Crow didn’t want me to know, he would have torn the meaty bits off—claimed to have made chili or pork stew or sausage. But no. Four bites in, and on my plate sits a human hand.

I swallow salad mingling with bile in my mouth.

“Is something wrong, Kohi?”

One of the fingers is missing. Fuck, did I already eat it? Is it clawing around inside of me? Is it—?

“Kohi?”

“This is…mine,” I stutter.

Crow shifts his weight, drawing out the awful creak of the ladder-back chair. “It would be a shame to let it go to waste, don’t you think? It came from your body, and now, it gets to return: fuel you. You can grow a whole _new_ hand with it.”

Inigo slows his chewing. “Crow… Don’t you think that’s a little…? I mean, look at the poor boy…”

I bite down on my molars. I have to contain the trembling.

“I understand. You worked very hard to prepare it… It’s just…I happen to not be that hun—”

“Eat it,” Crow commands. A shiver runs up my spine.

Eat it? Just like that? I suppose I already have eaten _some_ , and it didn’t kill me. But it’s a _pound_ of meat—a mess of bone slathered in untimely potato. But Crow has spoken.

“Some poor soul slaved over that dish—just for _you—_ for hours,” he pouts, “Are you really such a worthless ingrate?”

“If you love it so much, why don’t we switch?”

Crow’s temples sink. “Do you want me to get _angry,_ Kohi?”

He burns right through me. My stomach twists in knots. I have to resign myself to his whims. No matter what. Some of his wrath releases. “Need I repeat myself?”

The lump in my throat bobs as I lower my fork back into the sinewy mass. The knife saws through nerves and tendons with a forbidden ease. He’s cooked it well. It’s still moist everywhere except for the skin.

I close my eyes as it connects with my tongue. The worst part is, my flesh tastes _good_ the deeper I dig. I keep my eyes fixed on the plate. I can’t stand Crow’s smugness. But my body knows too much now. It doesn’t want this. I stifle a series of gags as I work into the palm, rinsing it down with heavy scoops of potato in a poor attempt to settle my stomach. It churns with mental nausea, then real nausea. I’m guzzling funnel cake from the front seat of a roller coaster. I grip the table, fighting to shove potato into my body.

Vomit floods my throat, but I chase it back with the rest of the wine. Crow won’t stop staring. Inigo can’t lift his eyes either, but his brows twist in a wash of pity.

I pick the meat off my thumb. Its weight drags it right off the bone. But the fingers are trickier. I’ve emptied the sea of salad and potato disguising the ruse. When I attempt to remove what remains, I just chase it around the plate in circles.

Crow waits patiently. He expects me to eat it all.

Just finish it… I can throw up later.

Hesitantly, I pick up a finger between my current set. It’s so skinny freed from water—almost like a pencil. My incisors skid against the mess of stiff collagen and connective tissue, tearing off little more than skin. I snap the joint and suck off the cartilage. It’s as hard as chewing gum, so I swallow it whole. Crow grins.

I crack the second finger—the fattest of the three. The skin sticks between my teeth. There’s no point picking it out until the last bone is clean. To the blind, I sound like a true glutton.

I pluck the nail free on the last. Please, let that be enough. I drop the empty bones in a pile on the barren plate. So many… But not enough that I can’t sort out which is which.

I settle back into my seat. Bile rises in me again. I disguise it as a burp. Successfully, apparently. Crow is pleased.

“How was your meal, Kohi?”

The clock ticks.

“Excellent. Thank you.” My stomach lurches in disagreement.

He sneers, “I thought you might enjoy it.”

Inigo remains silent, falling further into the back of his chair.

I remind myself I can throw up when I get out of this room. Just not in front of Crow. Not in front of Crow. Not in front of Crow… I burp for real, and I break down into soft trembles.

“I hope you didn’t fill up too thoroughly, Kohi. I thought, since today is a special day, we could treat ourselves to a little dessert.”

I wince. What is it this time? Did he find my eyeball goop? Probably blood pudding. He could shit in a cake and I’d have no choice but to shove it in my worthless gob. Fuck, I’m already so full.

Three white cardboard boxes skid across the hardwood. It’s a lemon square.

Just a lemon square? I stare at it. It hasn’t transformed into some hideous creature yet. It’s just a square—decorated with powdered sugar and even a fresh basil leaf.

I can’t lift my gaze. It’s the picture of perfection—done by an artist—a pastry chef. But a real chef wouldn’t make a trap. And Crow can’t cook this well, can he? I should know better than to underestimate him.

Inigo chuckles, “You went to a bakery? Is the world ending?”

“Why?”

“How would you even know if it’s any good?”

If Crow didn’t make it, I guess it’s safe. There’s a bluebird on the box, tweeting happily from the top of a cake.

It—

An arrow pierces my brain. I smell alcohol, but not in this room. A tap runs somewhere behind me. I’m thirsty. I’m not wearing shoes.

Crow says something back to Inigo, but I can’t hear it. Their mouths move up and down like marionettes. Something gold lights its way through the fog. Her lips move. My name… My name is…

“Fuck.”

Horrid metal scrapes the floor again. Crow stands from his chair. He pinches my cheeks in his hand, forcing me to look at him. But he blurs, then sharpens. Crow… He—

“The Red Light,” I spit. He was there. A silhouette drifts against the snow.

Crow twists into a gnarled scowl. It’s beyond his regular, irritant displeasure. He tosses his grip and picks me out of my chair, pinning my back to his chest as I drag my feet. My legs don’t move until we’re halfway through the door. My eyes widen. Then, I remember I can kick.

“Stop! I don’t want—! Don’t take me back there!”

Crow hefts me higher so my protests flail uselessly at the air. I aim for his ankles, but my already-weak attacks are further inhibited when he cinches my ribcage tighter. My lungs collapse. I taste _me_ again—rising in my throat encased in acidic velvet, and a hiccup of vomit dribbles onto my chin. I don’t hesitate to wipe it away with the back of my hand, weaponizing it—slathering as much of the fleshy pulp as I can over Crow’s arm. He squeezes tighter in retaliation, and I lose half my gut’s contents to the floor.

The ground-up mass is unrecognizable as it burns up in yellow bile. I want to be relieved, but Crow’s control is iron, and the vice grip on my organs is even worse than before.

Inigo slinks in Crow’s footsteps. Once we reach the lab, he races ahead.


	8. IV

IV

God, it’s fucking cold. I rub my hands over my quivering arms outside the lobby of Olivia’s building. My phone buzzes. My Uber is 2 minutes away. It might as well be an eternity. My breath pours into the air. I bite down on my teeth to cease the chattering. Perhaps I should have waited inside, but I drunkenly stumbled into a sheet of glass that _wasn’t_ the door in front of the concierge, and to show my face inside is even _more_ unthinkable.

I check my phone again. One minute. A blue Subaru Outback pulls around the corner. The streets are quiet at 2 AM, so he rolls right up to the curb. I slither into the back, prepared to hibernate. I batter the seatbelt against the wrong clip while the driver pulls onto the road, then finally manage to lock myself in.

I sink down in the seat. It’s heated. I stick my hands under my thighs, letting the stuffy warmth penetrate my frozen fingers. I rest my head as close to the window as possible without bearing the outside chill. Can he smell the alcohol on my breath?

I didn’t embarrass myself getting into the car, did I? He glances at me through the rearview mirror. I’m sure there’s a scowl under his mustache. But he’s driving for Uber at 2 AM on a Friday night—of course I’m drunk. What was I supposed to do? Walk? I resign myself to the incoming punch to my already less-than-stellar rating and let my gaze drift through snowy streetlights.

I check my phone again. The battery isn’t doing great, but I’m already in the car. I hope Amat remembers to take home his/my jacket. My wallet’s in the pocket, and I’m totally fucked without it. At least it will be at Brian’s. Please, let it be at Brian’s…

The car rolls up to the curb again.

“Is here okay?” the driver clucks. I blink at the mist of streetlights, hands already on the door. I poise to dash through the snow as quickly as possible.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine.” I wave him off. His lips tighten under his mustache as I stumble out the door. My shoes do not have the required traction for even the slightest dusting of snow, which thoroughly covers the sidewalk.

“Okay, man,” his head bobs, “Be careful, alright?”

I nod and wave him off, straightening myself to seem less drunk than I am. Maybe it’s a new gig. Dropping a slightly inebriated person off at home is far from cause for concern. The door slams shut, and he moves on, just catching the green light at the next intersection before heading north.

The second the coast is clear, I turn to the hail of snowflakes. They pepper my cheeks, and I blink the rest away. Did that really just happen? Olivia… And then, my euphoria knots itself. I was _so_ close! I could smell her. Taste her! God, I could _impale_ her roommate right now.

My breath releases and I stare at the numbers inked on my arm.

847-603-5519. My golden ticket. I’ve seen her place. I know what kind of shit she likes. I can engineer a date she can’t turn down. With eyes like that, a one-night stand could never be enough, even if the price is finishing myself off tonight.

I turn, expecting a row of houses, a few corner stores and the one condo across the street, but what I see is a bridge.

What the fuck? Where am I?

I spin wildly, trying to catch wind of a street sign, but it’s poorly lit. It’s even colder on the knobby sidewalk. A harsh chill whips along a wind tunnel, and I cover my bare arms and shiver.

Okay, okay. I can figure this out. Uber pops open on my phone, asking for a rating.

How was your trip to 414 Carlaw Pier with Jorge?

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck that’s _not_ my address! I was supposed to type 414 Carr Street. UGHHHH stupid fucking app and my stupid drunk fingers thinking it did it on its own. I restrain myself from throwing my phone on the ground, and then again when the battery falls to 5%.

I fumble for my maps app. How far am I? Can I make it on foot? I don’t trust my phone to last the wait time for a new cab. 19-minute walk according to my maps. I inhale. It’s reasonable. Once I get moving, I’ll warm up. Against my better judgment I check the weather. 3 degrees. I’m just being a wimp.

It’s been a while since I’ve walked this way. The south pier is mostly industrial with the odd park and condo project on the move. Keller’s Junction just north of it is an ‘up and coming’ neighborhood, meaning the rent is marginally cheaper, and the nights are marginally louder. Night is the best time to trudge through Keller’s. They’ve got the cheapest beer in the city. The bars are still rocking as I parade past at great haste, testing my impaired balance on tread-less shoes. Half an hour earlier, and I could have popped in for a pint.

My mind drifts to Olivia again. Would she like any of these places? The Red Light has the cheapest pitchers, but Borneo House has some decent food. Red Light looks like it’s closed anyways.

Really? I stop. On a Friday?

I shuffle up to the window. Maybe they’re having some themed “darkness” event. It’s impossible to keep up with whatever niche the art kids are into these days. I clear the fog from the glass where my breath hits it. A red glow peeks up behind the bar, but the rest are dim. Weird. Should I knock? They’ll be closed anyways. I still have 10 minutes to walk, and I really don’t need a worse hangover.

Just as I’m about to pull away, something moves. I gravitate back to the window. Three humanoid figures recline in the darkness. Those motherfuckers have drinks! Is it a private party? Part of me hopes they notice my envy from the outside. I understand rich folks buying up VIP tables and renting out rooftop bars, but not Red Light! Not _my_ Red Light! I issue a vocal scoff.

Two of the silhouettes at the table stand, and the air cracks.

My hands fly to my ears as waves of visceral gunshots fire inside the dingy bar. My knees buckle. Bullets tear into the third figure at the table, blood spraying wildly as his chest is riddled with metal. It’s a car crash I can’t rip my eyes away from. And then, the street is quiet.

Did I…? Did I really just see that? I need to move. Call the police or something! But my knees shiver. I reach for my phone. What do the men look like? Can I get a description of their heights, their faces? Is that guy dead? Fuck! If only my brain worked better!

Through the small window uncovered by fog, a figure stands. But not the shooters. It’s the third figure; the one riddled with shrapnel. Did they…miss?

He raises a revolver and fires one quick, clean shot through each assailant’s skull. My ears ache with the _thwack_ of their bodies hitting the floor. My fingers freeze above the touch screen. 1%. Should I…still call the police? I did see a murder, but of which one? I could have sworn the third guy was torn open.

The final figure clips his pistol. He turns towards the window.

FUCK! I scramble to dowse the light on my phone—to slip into darkness. But I’m too slow. The shadow storms through the empty bar towards the windows, redrawing its firearm.

I nearly drop my phone as I skid away from the Red Light. I fight to catch a grip on the slippery sidewalk. My hands brush the ground as I turn the first corner. The door jingles in my wake. I have to move!

I check over my shoulder: nothing yet. But I haven’t chosen a proper street. The back alley ends with a dumpster pressed against a chain link fence to separate two distinct properties.

The second I think about turning, a gunshot ricochets off the brick beside me. I duck. It’s loud as an earthquake. Someone has to have heard it. I need to get somewhere visible—somewhere past this dead end!

Another bullet cracks at my feet. I have no choice. I swear I’ll _never_ skip the gym again if I clear this! I launch onto the closed lid of the dumpster, fueled by pure adrenaline and latch on to the fence. My jeans tear as I swing my legs over; catching the jagged top, but a few drops of blood is hardly scary. The gunman lowers his pistol. He’s running. He’s going to climb too. I have a minute head start. If I can just lose him…

I drop to the other side of the alleyway. My knees jar with the impact as I come down on a forgotten hoard of broken glass. My shoes slip again as I race towards the light at the other side. Left? Or right? I need to go right to get home. Is that even a good idea?

Glass cracks behind me. I can’t help looking. The shadow lands. No way! How the fuck did he climb it so fast? He’ll know which way I turn. Can I outrun him? Not when he has a fucking gun—

The light in front of me disappears behind an SUV, screeching to a halt. I reel back as two armed men step out of the front seats. No. This can’t—Are they together? Can I spider-man my way up the brick?

The newcomers are big—much bigger than me. I rush them head on, planning on skidding under their blocky arms and using the SUV for cover, but I overestimate myself. The one on the left snags me with no trouble. His arm is like running into a steel bar. His bicep buckles, holding me up as I collapse. He seizes my hair and jerks my neck. I spin, secured by his bulbous arms. Am I fighting? My vision swirls.

“He saw,” a voice echoes. A gun cocks.

“Don’t fire that thing while I’m holding him!” My head jerks again as the stranger pulls on me like a shield.

“He called someone.”

“Who?”

“Just fucking kill him!” the one to my left hisses, “We’ve only got a few minutes until this place is swarmed!”

The runner snarls, “They fired first.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter!” he barks. “Unless you want a _whole_ lot of other people to see, we’re piling into that getaway car!”

“The witness?” the one holding me heaves.

“Take him. We’ll dump him later.”

Words pour out of me helplessly, “Wait, wait, wait! You don’t want to do this!”

What can I say? What am I up against? I can’t offer them money. Fuck, I don’t even have my wallet.

The tension on my hair releases. This is it. My escape. I can just wriggle my way out. Police sirens sound in the distance. They’re coming…

But the big guy shows no mercy. My skull vibrates when he cracks me over the head with his magnum. The muscles in my legs melt, and my jaw falls slack.

I feel my head droop, and the world turns black.


	9. 5

5

Crow straps me to the bench. I fight him as he pins my wrists, but he cracks my skull, and I falter long enough to lose agency of both hands. Without them, it’s no object to restrain my flailing ankles, even when I’m fully conscious. I scream in his smug face. That rat bastard! _God,_ I _need_ to see his head on a _spike._

He tightens a nylon strap around my calves. “Now, Kohi. Don’t forget your manners.”

“FUCK YOU!”

He smirks. I toss violently and he buckles the strap over my hips. My entire lower body locks in place. He tautens a band over my sternum until my chest leaks over it, then secures my biceps and shoulders. I scream as my mobility recedes. I still have control over my head—the most important part.

Inigo toils away at a computer. His brows are pulled back, as if there’s empathy hidden somewhere in his mousey body. But his eyes glisten with fear. He knows what I can do if I get loose.

Crow clutches my temples. His leather-bound strength is like two tons. I’ll break my neck before I throw him off. Inigo scurries towards the bench with a syringe.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

He hesitates, then looks at Crow.

“Do it,” he hisses. Inigo grimaces. He buries the needle into my deltoid. The muscle relaxant rips through my veins. I can’t even feel the tip. After a minute, Crow lets me go, and my head flops uselessly to the side. My fingers shake instead of balling into fists.

“How long?”

Inigo swallows, “I’m not sure… With his current rate, it should last 30 minutes.”

“Then sedate him.”

“He’ll burn that off in 5.”

Crow huffs, “We’ll have to make do.”

I shudder uselessly while Inigo skitters about the lab—flipping switches and sanitizing wires. I know what’s coming. Don’t take it. This _hate_ is the only thing I have.

My neck has the tenacity of a wet baguette. Inigo adjusts my face, clamping the final strap over my forehead. He bears down on it with all his weight to secure it.

Isopropyl scalds my nose as two electrodes are affixed to my forehead. Inigo retrieves a cloth from his pocket and wipes off the crusty vomit clinging to my chin. He smiles like a proud mother. Don’t you fucking dare…

“He’s ready,” he nods.

Crow stands in the corner, his arms crossed. “Turn it on.”

Inigo retreats to his swiveling seat at the monitor. Crow approaches. His arms swing casually at his sides as a mechanical whirring emanates from the bench. My head rises, and my feet lower. My weight settles on the maze of straps as my failing body comes to rest on an incline. I shouldn’t look at Crow, but my hatred burns too hot. I could scream something at him—something I _know_ he doesn’t want to hear—but my tongue is deadweight in my mouth, hardly able to dam the budding drool.

Crow holds up the white dessert box. “This is what did it, right? I would hate to have to do this again, if we start in the wrong place.”

He twirls it. The fluorescent lights turn the bird teal, rather than the sunny blue I remember. “Perhaps your mother was a baker, or one of your friends a food blogger… That’s good,” he sneers, “You can’t help remembering them, can you?”

My head blurs. The fog is so thick, but I hear a laugh. Is it my mother? No… My mother’s hair is curly. There are two of them—dancing in the mist, treading water.

Suddenly, my head explodes. A searing heat races through my skull, temple to temple. My throat closes with the pain. Every muscle north of my heart coils into a vibrating knot. My limbs tear at the restraints—my chest involuntarily jerked upwards as the current of electricity dashes down my spine. My neck convulses. And then, the fire recedes.

Muscles that were once tense relax completely under the drug’s influence, spasming intermittently of their own volition. My head lolls about, the ache baked in. The static flits across my fingers. My nerves are so fried they better resemble an intricate network of shards of ice.

“Do you know what this is?” Crow twirls the box again. My eyes are drawn to its movement. I bite down on my tongue. I’ve regained some control of it. It’s a bluebird. From a pastry shop. The same—

“Again.”

The second pulse lights me up like a firework. My head reels back immediately, pressed into the cold plastic of the bench as the strength of my jaw threatens to shatter my teeth. I flop between the straps like a fish out of water. Every millisecond fire rockets through my nerve endings. My brain is no longer baked. It’s seared—sizzling. Grey matter shrivels like fat on crisping bacon.

Inigo pouts when the pulse ends. A jackhammer drills into my frontal lobe, and my throat rasps as I attempt to breathe through the confusion of my diaphragm. My heartbeat echoes in my chest—thumping offbeat like a deaf child dancing at a wedding.

“Do you _know_ what this is?” Crow repeats. My throat closes entirely as I hold back tears. Why is it green? Bluebirds are blue, right?

“Some fucking bird,” I spit. Please. Please, let him buy it.

“What bird?”

“I don’t know!” I snivel.

Crow grinds his teeth. “You’re fucking lying.” He snaps his fingers at Inigo, who cowers over the dial. “Stop his heart.”

“If I turn it up, we risk short-circuiting—”

“Inigo…”

“He won’t survive!”

Crow pauses and pockets the box. His boots thud against the tile, my muscles still twisting and vibrating in my throat and inner thighs. He lays a hand on my neck, clutching it loosely.

“You won’t die, will you, Kohi? You won’t disappoint me like that.”

I shudder, sparks of electricity still rattling around in my skull.

I hear the unwilling click of a dial as Inigo does as Crow bids, and I pray. If I wake up, let it be anywhere but here. Let me die so I can see the sun again. Let me see a busy street, or waves on the ocean. Let me see a dog in the park or smile at a friendly face. Let me touch a girl… Play a video game… Drink until sunup…

“Now.”

My vision snaps white. My ears flood with a persistent, inaudible ringing. Lightning burns my brain so badly I fail to register whatever my body is doing. My temporal lobes cremate. Heat carries down my spine—through my neck—cooking my chest. It clamps onto my heart, as promised. Inigo keeps the machine buzzing. One second. Two. Three… My heart needs direction. The irregular beat scatters like a frightened rabbit. It batters against my ribs. It’s going to escape. Hotter… Hotter….

And then, it gives up.

My muscles stay tensed as it stifles. I’m dead. The pause drags on…and on… Sensation is totally sapped from my fingers. I rake in a breath, but there’s no use. Blood won’t flow to my brain. My head drops the moment the electricity lessens, and I hang limply at their mercy.

It’s dark now… Fading… My lungs quit too. And I wait.

And wait…

And wait…

My heart thumps pathetically in my chest. I can’t help but grimace. It—

They shock me again. This one, I think, is just to see me squirm. The nerves in my brain burst. The protective liquid in my skull boils, and my cerebrum shrivels in crossed-wiring. I gasp for breath. It’s so hot. I uselessly fly into the ensuing supernova—beyond the concept of space…of time…of anything. What’s left is only static. Black and white blurs. A flicker, easily mistaken as a ghost.

When the current dies, Inigo rushes over with a plastic-handled scalpel. He cuts into my arm, anxiety plastered over his face as my eyes struggle to focus. Blood surfaces on my forearm, trickling slowly onto the clean, white floors. What is he waiting for? Why the fuck am I here? Why—?

I blink, and the next second, the aching cut has gone.

Inigo blows a sigh of relief, “It survived.”

“So far.”

A man stands in front of me, looming like a shadow. Crow… Yes, Crow… There’s something he wants from me. Did I disappoint him? I don’t want to disappoint him.

He holds up a white sheet with an image of a bird and furrows his brow. “Do you _know_ what this _is_?”

I blink at the thing. Some sort of business? Fuck, I don’t know anything about cake. What if I answer wrong? Please… Please, don’t let me answer wrong.

I inhale a teary line of snot dripping out my nose. My tongue vibrates when I spit out a pathetic, “…A b-bird?”

Crow lowers the object. Carefully, he slips the collapsed box into the interior pocket of his jacket. My heart beats. Did I get it?

“A bird. You’re right,” he smiles. His eyes are so dark—like staring into infinity. I swallow my fear. Have I not noticed that before?

Crow undoes a restraint on my wrist. “And who are you?”

Who? I fumble for words, but they do not come to me nearly as quick as “bird.” Why is my skull empty? I have to have a name, don’t I? There’s something with a K, or maybe a J? Or is it A? I’m going to get it wrong, and I can’t stop myself from crying.

Crow doesn’t hesitate to wipe away the tears.

“Kohi…” he breathes, “Your name is Kohi. And you’ve had a _very_ long night.”


	10. V

V

I wake in a murky room. My vision flickers to absorb something beyond the darkness. Fuck, my head hurts. A massive welt on my temple swells against concrete floor. My joints creak as I shuffle. I’ve been lying like this far too long, and I instinctively change positions despite the persistent ache. My hands are bound. I attempt to flex my fingers. I get a little blood flowing to them, but they’re cold as ice.

I grunt and inhale through my nose. Even the smallest pants are totally silenced through the gag pulled taut against my cheeks.

I roll over. Maybe I can wriggle my face free with the friction of the ground. It’s got good traction, but every little movement reminds my body of the pain that got it here in the first place.

Even if I get it off… Shit. They’re going to kill me, aren’t they? That’s what the big one said: take him and dump him. I saw too much. Just one prolonged glance through the wrong window on a Friday night… I was supposed to text Amat when I got home safe. Will he know something’s amiss? He must think I got piss drunk and prioritized a second fuck over him. Oh, Amat, please don’t be mad enough to skip my funeral.

No! No, I can’t just _give up!_ My head is clearing. The lights in the room glow dimly, exposing a mess of rusted pipe poised over grey brick. It looks like an unfinished basement. I’m still in the city. A single door waits on the other side, locked. They’ve taken care to clear out any tools and keep me away from windows. My phone is gone, but if I’m not deep underground, I can call for help.

Quietly, I flop onto my back—poised on my tied arms so the back of my head rests against the cool concrete. Slowly, I rock myself back and forth. I can’t loosen the knot, but the tension on the gag relies on its position. If I can just inch it down…

The fabric tears at my jaw as I creep closer to success. My bottom lip stretches with it. I tuck my chin into my neck. I give it a hand with my tongue—pushing and prodding and sweating until the rag is soaked and my mandible merges with my trachea. And then suddenly, it pops.

The gag shakes loose around my neck. I gasp and roll my jaw around, allowing my facial tissue to snap back into shape.

I could scream, but I hold off. The kidnappers are more likely to come running before help does. And with my mouth free, there’s a chance I can get my hands. And with my hands—my chances might be worth holding out for.

Squeezing my bound wrists over my ass is even harder than inching the gag down. The strap burrows into my skin, and I’m sure even if I do succeed, I’ll never feel my fingers again. But I’m alone in this room. And I have nothing better to do.

I curl my spine like an armadillo. After what feels like an hour of straining, I’ve worked enough pliancy into the fabric restraints that one more big push clears my hands from behind my back. I rush them over my feet, bringing the binds up to my face to tear at them like a wild animal.

I have to strategize around the knots, or I’ll end up wasting time. God, it’s so hard to see in here.

“Motherfucker.”

The door creaks open, two bulky silhouettes blocking the light of the hall.

I proceed to fill my lungs and scream. The men storm into the room. One slaps a hand over my gob.

“You don’t want to be doing that.”

I bite him. His hand recoils.

“You little shit!”

“HELP! HELP! ANYBODY!”

His hand knocks my head into the ground. I feel my skull crack, and the room spins. The big one’s boot plows into my gut. My stomach shoots into my chest, and I curl up on the floor, wheezing. My legs draw up to shield my organs from the next blow, but it doesn’t come.

Should I try to fight them? My hands are still bound. My head rings even louder than it did fueled by trauma and dehydration.

“Are you gonna stay down?” He nudges me with his boot, and a fat spatter of phlegm rains down on my collar.

“Now, that’s no way to treat a guest,” a third voice chimes from the open doorway. The room falls quiet despite my labored breathing. The shadowy figure strides in, closing the windowless metal behind him.

He has a different look than the other two. He’s refined, but callous. Poised, but barbarous. The shave on his face is perfectly uniform and a matured set of muscles ripple under his clothes. They fit tight without revealing too much—like he’s about to climb a mountain. However, instead of ropes and hooks his belt is set with knives and ammunition.

He’s the one from the Red Light: the one I saw filled with bullets only a short time ago.

The other two leave me space to shiver on the floor. The newcomer removes a black, rectangular object from his back pocket. He waves it in front of me.

“Is this yours?”

My phone—of course they have it. Maybe someone’s tracking it—

The moment the thought crosses my mind; the immortal man’s black gaze drives it out. He’s too smart for that. It’s already disabled.

I nod.

He smiles. “You have…interesting taste, I must say. A taste I admit, I do not fully understand. What I need you to do…is confirm my understanding of a few _key_ things.”

Despite his ominous aura, he’s far friendlier than the brutes in the back, brooding between the folds of their leather jackets. My head twinges as I fight my way to my seat, adjusting to sit cross-legged, my hands placed neatly in front of me.

“Seriously, Green? Have you learned nothing?” he scowls at the violent boor lying in wait.

Green snarls, “I tied him well and good. Motherfucker was halfway loose when we burst in.” The immortal man clicks his tongue.

“My, my; you are either incredibly clever, or exceedingly stupid. I’m curious to find out which it is. Now,” he smirks, “do you know who we are?”

“No.” That’s the best answer, right? The less I know, the better. If I promise not to say anything about that weird shit I saw, better yet, if I prove I don’t even _believe_ it, there’s a 1% chance they’ll let me go.

“Good. And you don’t know who else you saw at the Red Light last evening?” Think.

“I heard a loud noise. It sounded like gunshots, so I ran… Are you FBI or something?”

The smaller, ginger one at the back snorts. The front man crouches, meeting me at eye level.

“No… We’re not FBI… We’re not anything you’ve ever heard of. And it’s certainly in our best interest it stays that way.”

“I won’t tell anybody…”

“Oh, I know. I’m not going to provide you the opportunity. What I want to know…is if you already did.” He waggles the phone again. The ironic screensaver lights up purple. 11:57 AM. It was almost dead last night. They must have charged it while trying to fiddle with it.

But… I didn’t tell anyone. I was _going_ to call 911 before all that other shit went down, but I didn’t get the chance. So, I should be safe, right?

No… I gulp. I’m just a liability, a liability the dark-haired man _clearly_ doesn’t want. If I’ve said nothing, I have no value to him; no further use. I glance at the assortment of knives on his belt.

“Why?”

A ripple runs through his jaw and shade takes over his glare. “Who did you tell? The cops? Daddy big bucks? Some dullard sidepiece?”

“If you’ve opened my phone, you already know.”

He tenses. They couldn’t get through Amat’s security software. They’re in the dark. He knows that I know.

“I don’t care what pompous tech program you’re in at your has-been of a school, we’ll break through it. Unless, of course, you’d rather waste my time.”

“I’ve gotten a kick out of it so far.”

He exhales a malformed laugh, “Be careful what you wish for.” He rolls his shoulders and stands back to his full height—towering like a storm cloud over a skyscraper. Lightning brews in his gaze. “I could cut your fingers off. Open your phone myself.”

“And unlock a deleted conversation in an app you’ve never even heard of? Good luck.”

I certainly don’t know what I’m talking about when it comes to computers, but I’ve spent enough time with Amat to bullshit. Anyone over the age of thirty is bound to get lost in a maze of blockchain and bytes.

“I was wrong about you,” he sighs, “It appears you are both exceedingly clever, _and_ incredibly stupid.”

I cock a brow.

He strikes like a viper. The immortal man grips my throat, poising a knife slipped from his belt on the inside of my cheek. The metal bears down on the corner of my mouth, faultless steel already shearing open my face. I can’t move. He holds my head perfectly still with inhuman strength.

I swallow through my breaths. There’s nowhere to look but at him—to face the monstrosity. He holds the knife steady. I wait, and wait… But he doesn’t slice me open.

“Listen to me carefully,” he leers, “Notice that I _haven’t_ torn your face into an irreparable horror, despite the fact that it would please me greatly. Your mouth is the _one_ part of you I need working. So, I promise to leave it spotless. The rest of you, however, is of _no_ consequence to me, and I will poke and prod every button you have until you’d sell me your own mother.”

Still as a statue, the blade retreats from my mouth. “Are we clear?”

He pulls me in closer by the back of the neck. I smile.

“Crystal.”

He stands and closes his eyes, pocketing the phone and the knife. Holy shit, I was sure he’d feel my heartbeat racing in my spine. Have I fooled him? He’s leaving.

“I frankly tire of your arrogance, and I have a device that needs breaking. Green, Lombatto… Introduce the whelp to his hubris.”

Green cracks his knuckles behind me. “With pleasure.”

It occurs to me—what’s about to happen. The door shuts on his way out, abandoning me with the two called Green and Lombatto. Their footsteps shuffle on the brick. They must have keys. Maybe I can fight them… But with my hands tied? Who am I kidding? I’ve been in a few drunken brawls. These guys are professionals.

Green grabs the scruff of my neck before I come to a decision—hoisting me up with one meaty paw. I swing at Lombatto as he dances, grinning from ear to ear as I miss. The next punch comes fast. Lombatto nails my throat. I wheeze and fall to the ache.

“Get his fucking hands, Green,” he jeers.

Green retires his grip on my clothes, looping one veiny arm through each of mine as I collapse. My breath pours in through a haggard cough. Lombatto comes at me again, so I kick him, catching his shin. He grits his teeth.

“Motherfucker!” He holds his leg. “This _fucking_ pretty boy has it _fucking_ coming to him.”

“Were you going to feel bad?” Green jests.

“Of course not! But now, I’m gonna enjoy it.”

Green yanks my arms, forcing my hands higher and away from protecting my vulnerable organs. When I try to kick the assailant, he artfully spins to the side—his right hook throwing my brain around in my skull. The moment I’ve absorbed the shock, he hits me again, and again. I feel nothing but heat as the pain slowly envelops me—disorients me. I don’t know where my legs are when he stabilizes himself on my shoulders. His knee shoots into my gut.

I crumple. He snickers and takes hold of my hair, making my head a stable target to repeatedly swing his fist into. Blood pools in my mouth as my cheeks tear. My teeth crack. I wince at the snap in my nose when his fist collides with it. Lombatto’s right fist tires, so he rams his knee into my stomach again. Its contents lurch. What contents? I haven’t eaten—? It’s just more blood in my mouth.

Lombatto smashes his head into mine. My skull rings again. My vision blacks out temporarily as the assailant pulls back, hand to his forehead.

“Take him,” Lombatto winces. The next thing I know, Green’s grip on me releases. My legs are gelatin. I half-manage to get my bound hands up before I hit the ground, but my nose cracks on the stone.

I grunt, pulling away for no purpose other than survival. I should have just kept my mouth shut; played dumb! I just…have to hope they leave me something to work with. That bastard in the other room certainly isn’t going to let them have all the fun.

Green kicks my chin so hard I flop all the way over. Blood explodes from my face, my lips instantly bursting under the impact. His boot comes down on my chest. I wheeze, then sputter. My sternum holds up, somehow, so he kicks me in the side, and my ribs crackle like Rice Crispies.

Green buckles, wrapping one massive fist around my skull. My vision reddens as his smile stares me down, and then, he rams my head into the pavement.

A terrible splat rips across the concrete, and I lie still.

Ghosts of yellow incandescent lights shimmer above me, swirling like fireflies. Slowly, they meld into one light reflected in my blackened eyes like a hall of a thousand mirrors.

Green dusts off his hand. Blood squelches.

“Escape my knots, will you…” he rasps. Air whistles through my nose. The oxygen fails to get through the mess of blood. I close my eyes and attempt to move any part of my body, but my nerves are a blur. I feel like a puddle.

I twitch a foot, but by then, the door has opened, and Green and Lombatto have filed out in the immortal man’s wake.


	11. VI

VI

I lie under the glow of a dim lightbulb, staring up at the ceiling. Every inch of me aches with a repulsion that threatens to consume me from the inside out. The air hums as I breathe. It’s going to ache for a long time.

The room is empty now. Alone, I sprawl in a swamp of my own blood, grasping at time. Every exhale feels like three under the pressure of my cracked ribs. Has it been five minutes since Green and Lombatto left? An hour? A day? I feel like an open wound—throbbing, waiting for attention. All I can do is wait. Wait for it to die even in the slightest. Wait to even move.

But I’m alive, aren’t I? I have to have done something right.

I count the breaths rattling through my nose. The air crawls its way through smashed cartilage and a mess of drying plasma. It slithers into my throat, burning the sides so thoroughly inflamed by Lombatto’s first strike. My diaphragm beckons it down—straining under its own bloody bruises. I’m sure my stomach’s ruptured. There must be acid burning a hole in it right now.

Worst of all, it enters my lungs, forcibly pushing my bones apart. Just _living_ propels me to break a little more. And then I exhale, and it happens all over again.

I haven’t moved a muscle when the door creaks open.

My heart jumps to my throat. He’s back.

My left eye is near swollen shut, but through the mist I recognize the visitor is a stranger.

He is certainly not the size of Green or Lombatto. He stoops as he shambles forward, a heavy bag weighing down both his hands. As he enters the light, a warm smile peeks out under his curled mustache. I can’t move, regardless of his intent.

The stranger wipes his hands on a blue apron and kneels, cracking open the bags. First, he lays out a roll of plastic. On it he rests a scalpel, a pack of sanitary wipes, a needle, a set of Steri-Strips, and a handful of syringes paired with various vials.

He clicks his tongue. “My, my…I certainly have my work cut out for me.”

What is he? Some kind of doctor? I lock onto him, but hold my tongue.

“Do you think you can sit up for me? You’ll drown yourself if you let the blood run into your throat, you know.”

His warning shocks me back to life. Maybe, just maybe I can muster the strength to ascend. I grit my teeth. My legs propel me onto my side. The stranger coils his mouth in a tight O—an observer to my agony.

Successful, the blood blocking one of my nostrils drops into the other. I gasp at the clear airway.

He pats me on the shoulder. “There, there. You’re doing a great job so far.”

I inch my way upwards on my arms. They’re not so bad, but my ribs groan with every movement. Green lights dance in my eyes as I drag my face along the floor. One more push…and I’m up. My legs balance me, luckily spared from the events of the day.

“Excellent!” he beams, “You listen well, you know. You might be the only one here who does. That’s a quality worth investing in! Now, where does it hurt the most?”

It takes two breaths to find my voice.

“Everywhere.”

The stranger laughs in spite of the tortured hoarseness. “If you want to tell jokes, perhaps we should get your lungs sorted, eh?” He scoots closer, poising a hand over my left side. “Let’s see what the damage is.”

He runs a hand over my ribs one by one, counting the number of times I wince and gauging the severity. When he is done, he clicks his tongue and repeats the process on the right.

“Three on the left, one on the right. That can’t be good for your breathing.” Suddenly, he leans forward, pressing an ear to my chest. I mean to push him off, but everything hurts too much.

“Mmm…hmmmm…” he nods, “Green has good aim. It’s going to hurt for a little while, but your lungs are safe.”

I can’t help the words escaping. “Who are you?”

He stops in the middle of prepping an alcoholic wipe. “How rude of me,” he blushes, “My name is Inigo Ferreira. Think of me as your guardian angel, for I am the one tasked to making sure you, my young friend, do not die.”

“And why would you do that?”

Inigo brushes blood-soaked hair from my face, gently cleansing red stain from the welts. My cheeks feel like identical volcanoes—primed to burst at the slightest touch. The vision in my left eye is purple, and the right has swollen just for good measure. Blood drips from my lips, following the flow of gravity from the gruesome pool in my mouth.

“Crow wants you alive for some reason. Personally, I find it so terribly boring with only those three for company. This is a welcome distraction.”

“Crow… He’s the one in black?”

“The very same,” Inigo retires the wipe, prepping a syringe, which he then proceeds to stick into my face. I can’t feel it through the heat. But as the seconds tick on, the tension in my skin fades in the slightest, no longer becoming _more_ inflamed.

“Why would you help a guy like that?”

Inigo pauses between stitches. “I _do_ appreciate the conversation. However, I think some secrets are better left uncovered, for your sake.”

Five stitches burrow their way into my lip, promptly followed by another three on my cheek. Inigo covers the lesions with a clear paste, then scowls at my nose.

“Lombatto said you were pretty.”

I tilt my head, less than entertained.

“Right! Yes…” He presses both thumbs against the bridge of cartilage. I wince as his hands snap to the left. There’s an audible crack, and my breathing clears up a degree as more fat dollops of blood run free.

“Why! Perhaps Lombatto was right!” He’s trying to be a ray of sunshine in this dungeon. There’s no way I even look human. Even in the dark, I’ve avoided touching my face for a reason. If I get out of here, would a girl like Olivia even look my way again?

He claps his hands. “Ah! I knew there was something I was forgetting!” He retrieves a single plastic water bottle from his bag and an airplane snack bag of pretzels. “If you need anything else, I implore you use the bucket in the corner.”

Inigo begins to pack up his materials.

“Wait.”

I’m not totally sure what I want. Perhaps I just don’t want this interlude to end. The moment he leaves, what will time become? What if it clears the way for Crow and his goons? What if they find out I lied? Green’s boots hit hard, but a bat hits harder. I swallow.

“Thank you.”

Inigo softens. A light of a different kind replaces his joyful façade. His lips curl into a smile. He digs through his bag again, securing a syringe he didn’t plan to use.

“If you don’t mind…” he shuffles, “To maintain your _optimum_ health during your stay with us, a little blood sample would ensure I’m able to treat any pre-existing conditions. To the best of my ability, of course.”

Really? Is he asking for my consent?

I know I’ve lost enough blood today, but the last thing I want is to get on the bad side of a _fourth_ sociopath.

I stick out my arms, still bound together. Inigo grins and lines the needle up with the purple vein in my right elbow. Thick, crimson collects in the vacuum, working its way into a label-less vial at its base. God, I’m dehydrated.

Inigo snaps a lid on the sample, grinning to himself. After a thorough visual examination, he stows it in the front pocket of the case. “Well, young man. It was very nice to meet you. I do hope we get to chat like this again.”

“Sure.”

He heads for the door, and I am alone.


	12. 6

6

My feet drag down the hall to my room. The lingering ache from the lab disappears quickly, but the chemicals impairing my skeletal muscular system do not. Crow supports my arms and shuffles me through the door, my head drooping. I count the stains on the flooring. There are only three.

My legs collapse as I am placed on my bed—a single twin with two white sheets. It creaks under my weight, and for a minute, I remember to listen.

Crow balances me with one hand on my shoulder, though the strength of my posterior chain has started to return. Did I get in trouble? If I was in the lab, maybe something went wrong. Some ache still lingers. I can’t place it.

“Here.” Inigo pulls a water bottle from the depths of his pockets and a plastic container that rattles with pills. He removes two—one white and one blue—and places them in my idle hands.

I can’t lift my arms.

Crow heaves a sigh. He steals the medicine, releasing my jaw with the careful placement of one finger, and pops the drugs on my tongue. He tilts my chin up, and my body swallows. He proceeds to twist the cap of the bottle, placing it to my lips. I happily gulp down a wave of relief.

He places the half-empty bottle on a metal stool in lieu of a bedside table.

“You’ll be able to move in a few minutes. Get some rest. All this will be over in the morning.” He pats my shoulder and herds Inigo out the door, who flits a wave as he departs.

The lock clicks, and I keep my balance for two additional seconds. My torso flops over on the bed, legs dangling uselessly over the edge. He only said a few minutes, right? God, I’m so sleepy… But I don’t want to fall asleep hunched over like this.

I breathe into the folds of sheets, counting my breaths. Slowly, some shuffling capacity returns to my joints. My legs are solid plates of lead, but I manage to pull them onto the mattress. My feet still hang off the perimeter, but I’m horizontal, and that’s good enough.

My spine decompresses, and a second wave of fatigue washes over me. Why am I so tired? I had a check-up in the morning and training in the afternoon. Dinner was good, I think? I remember throwing up. Maybe not so good, after all.

I close my eyes, losing myself to the space between thought and dream. My head floats on a blue and white cloud. The ticks in my muscles are but a distant memory. I am suctioned into the deepness. Clouds spiral around me as I soar. They’re beautiful. But the higher I get, the darker they become. Each fluffy mass hides a murky figure. They lurk beneath it, reaching out to me. A red glow… A person… I extend my hand to a snowy street. There are no streets in the lab, so how do I…?

The snow collapses into a downpour of water. It floods my throat. I cough and assuage the heavy beads from my eyes. Somewhere else. I have to look somewhere else. I penetrate the next cloud, but that one liquefies too. I struggle for breath.

The person in the next haze will help me, surely. But sure as rain, the water comes down. My nostrils sting as I fail to suck in air. My lungs cave in. Is there anywhere safe?

Not up here. Not where the fog is thin.

I race down through the sky, the downpour hot on my trail as I burst more and more of the clouds, never pausing to look at what’s inside. Where’s the earth? I have to make it to earth! I can’t breathe. I can’t—

A black surface appears below me, and I plummet.

My eyes shoot open. Has it been a minute? An hour? I swim in a pool of my own sweat. I tear my shirt off, using whatever dry parts remain as a towel for my forehead. I guess my muscles are working again.

I rise from the bed and drink the rest of the water. A burn echoes in my sinuses, but I’m too thirsty to pay it mind.

It’s still dark. The room is windowless, but a lamp remains on at a faint glow. I turn it off. Then, all that accompanies me is the blue spark of an old digital alarm clock on the far side of the room.

My head rests on the mattress—this time in its proper position. I hesitate before closing my eyes. What waits for me on the other side? I don’t want to feel that tightness in my chest again. What was that, anyways? I saw something, but the second I try to recall it, the image drowns. I shoot away from it in fear.

Breathe. Just breathe. Tomorrow is a new day.

All I want from today is to forget.


	13. VII

VII

No one comes for me the next day, or the one after that. Neither is the barrel of a gun pressed to my forehead, so Amat’s security must be holding up. My only visitor is Inigo Ferreira, who comes by promptly at 5 o’clock each evening, according to his timekeeping, to tend my wounds and ferry in sustenance.

For three days I live off ham and cheese sandwiches, tap water and dry cereal. It’s not much, but the ingredients are fresh. Inigo smiles every time he drops supplies off, taking the waste bucket on the way out. I think he enjoys my company, though we don’t talk much. I doubt Crow would offer such regular maintenance. Luckily for me, apparently, he has somewhere else to be.

My body is too wrecked to make an attempt on the binds in the first two days. But on the third, I manage to chew through the straps, freeing my hands. It brings on no changes in my schedule—no brutes or beatings or even a warning. No matter how loud I scream at the ceiling, I don’t hear sirens. The only sounds to keep me company are the flicker of the light bulbs and the swish of the ceiling fan.

The swelling ebbs day-by-day. My ribs hurt like hell, and when I pull up my shirt, my torso is plastered in sickly purple bruises. Each inch of swollen skin bounces under my touch, but the flames that once accompanied them recede. I’m still a puddle, but a puddle that is _not_ on fire. In my boredom I lie still and feel out the mess of contours of my face, trying to sculpt a picture in my mind. I don’t have much luck.

Three days, and I’m almost thankful for the pain. I wait on Inigo voraciously. Even those goons would be a welcome change of pace. Don’t they have more threats for me? More ways to tell me I’m asinine?

Alone, I think about Amat. He must know I’m missing. Hell, even Brian and Carson must know something is amuck. Chuck will find out next and… Well, I’ve disappointed my dad enough times.

What will I tell them when they return? I’ve accomplished nothing but stasis. Reveal I told no one, and Crow has no further use for me. Lie, and he’ll track down whomever I name. My third option is to hold on and wait for him to discover it on his own. It’s my only chance. And yet, the thought sends shivers up my spine. He’s obviously versed in the realm of pain. Some mobster? Trafficker? No… If he were either of those, I’d already be dead.

I can’t help thinking about what I saw. His body packed full of lead—then rising again like Lazarus. Maybe I didn’t just imagine that. Maybe…that’s what they’re trying to protect.

I wait for Inigo for the fourth time. My stomach growls. It’s feeling better after being put through the wringer, and I need every crumb of energy I can get just to heal. I’ve already burned through breakfast, and lunch. A quarter of a Nestle water bottle remains by my side. It has to be getting close to 5 o’clock, right? Please, God, just let me talk to another person. Someone _please_ confirm this isn’t just happening inside my head.

I have nothing to fill the time but prod my aching ribs—testing how much weight they’re ready to bear. It is, unfortunately, not much. So, I count my breaths. The highest I’ve gotten without being interrupted is 2,448. Today, I reach 567.

The door opens. I prop myself up from lying supine. It’s not Inigo.

I swallow the image of Crow, standing with his hands clasped at the head of his pack of goons.

“You look like you’ve seen better days.”

Cocky asshole. If I get out of here, I’ll tear him to pieces myself…if Chuck doesn’t get him first.

I keep my lips sealed. Crow nods to his underlings. They advance. They aren’t poised for a beating, but I brace myself nonetheless.

Green hefts me up again. He’s a welcome support when my torso twists. He holds my wrists behind me, cuffed by his gargantuan palms.

The slightest hint of a smile slithers under Crow’s expression. I grit my teeth. My rage boils over.

“What’s the matter? You too good to hit me yourself?”

He angles his head to the side. “Let’s take a walk.”

Green presses me forward. Lombatto cocks a gun at my temple for safe measure. The steel burrows into my welts. Where I put my feet is a decision quickly torn out of my hands. With Lombatto on one side and Green bulldozing me forward, my heels catch whatever tile Crow wants them to. For the first time in days, I exit the room.

What awaits is a long hall of white tile and dark grout. Fluorescent lights hum above. It looks like an office building, or a hospital—but cleaner than the first, and dirtier than the latter.

Lombatto jams the revolver into my skull, and we continue. I stumble into another, equally dark room at the far end of the corridor. Only this one has not been cleared of amenities.

A toilet and sink sit on the corner, but they’ve seen better days. The ceiling fan sits idle, and the lights flicker intermittently. Water drips from a hose coiled on the floor, emptying down a grate laid in thick concrete. Damp leaches into my bones instantly.

If this weren’t already a scene straight out of a horror movie, what waits in the center of the room would certainly inspire Stanley Kubrick. A large wooden slab sits propped against a hefty table—a series of slits cut near the edges.

Lombatto hisses, “Get on it.”

“Or what—?” Green twists my arm before I say something clever. I wince, and Lombatto pushes me forward by my crushed ribs. Looking at the plank, I fight for balance. It’s not wet, but it has been.

I hesitate. The gun cocks, and he fires into the concrete. Chunks spatter against my ankle. My body freezes over just from the bursting noise.

One knee falls to the wood, and they don’t hesitate to grab me.

Green seizes both my ankles. He spins me around so my head rests at the lower end of the plank above the drain. Lombatto stashes his gun and grabs my arms. He whips a zip-tie from his jacket pocket, as does Green. I kick at the giant, but he slams my feet down with no trouble. The strength of my arms is nothing from this angle. My wrists are quickly secured through the slits in the board, and my ankles join them.

Green ties a third restraint around my hips for good measure.

My heart beats faster than I want it to. Remember all those hours you lay awake just wishing _something_ would happen? Remember _yearning_ to give Crow a piece of your mind? I should be prepared for this. But the immortal man’s boots tap on the wet concrete, and my resolve sinks like an anchor.

Delay him. I have to delay him.

“Still can’t crack that phone open, can you?”

“So now you feel like talking?”

“I’ve just got a soft spot for that twitch you do when you’re angry. There! Just like that.”

“It’s a shame Green left you with a sense of humor.”

I attempt to shrug. “Some things can’t be beaten out.”

Crow’s smile spreads like molasses. “I beg to differ.”

A rush of water fills my ears as Lombatto turns on the tap. Crow dusts off his hands. He removes a cloth from one of the many pockets on his belt. The cream color bears old stains.

“I _would_ ask you some questions first. But at the risk of you spilling everything before we even get started, I’ll hold off.”

I pull against the restraints as Crow places the rag over my forehead. Lombatto lowers the hose. It’s icy like November air. For a second, it’s refreshing. But the second my hair is soaked the chill sets in.

I pull at the bonds as Crow closes in, gently dragging the rag over my face. But the twisting of my ribcage sends fresh jolts of fire through my chest. I inhale the damp.

“There,” he jeers, “You look much better.”

Water slaps against the ground to my left. My breathing stifles through the cloth. My eyes flit around, but all I see are obscure patches of light and dark. They blur together as the hose is brought over my face. Parts of the turbid flow ricochet off the fabric—escaping my crown of slick hair and heading for the drain.

But the rest soaks through. An ocean roils in my sinuses. When I breathe through my nose, it burns. The sting carries into my chest. I remember this feeling. Suddenly, I’m 8 years old, and I’ve taken a dive at the pool without enough thought.

I gasp through my mouth. All I get is water, and I gag immediately, spitting up heaps of frozen liquid. My ribs shudder as my diaphragm convulses helplessly. I’m on land, so why the _fuck_ isn’t there any air?

These aren’t breaths I can count. Each one is strangled and mutilated from birth. My hearing folds to the waterfall. There is nothing else. Nothing…

The flow stops.

I gasp desperately, still taking in moisture, but my lungs get oxygen. I’m on land for four seconds, and then, I’m plunged underwater again.

The second the hose resumes, my lungs shrink and sputter. Another minute passes and I haven’t gotten air. Right before I slip into unconsciousness, the hose slips out of place, and my body claws at another unwilling series of breaths.

The third time, my chest lurches. Muscles I’ve never heard the names of spasm against the bonds. My body _knows_ there’s something in my throat—inhibiting airflow, so it sputters and shakes to clear it out. But there is nothing.

There’s nothing I can do but _die._

Panicked, I need even more air than usual. And I am getting _none_ of it.

The hose clears. I gulp in as much as I can. Too much. I’m choking again. Fingers pinch the cloth above my broken nose. Crow’s face appears in the space above. Water drips from my eyelashes.

“Now then… Who did you contact?”

The rag is weighed back on me before I can part my quivering lips. I shout through the storm, but for a solid minute, Crow isn’t interested in what I have to say. Four minutes. I’ve been drowning for four minutes. I had a summer job as a lifeguard. It only takes half of that to black out.

My lungs rattle when Crow reveals himself again. My hindbrain panics—anything to grant me more time at the surface. It takes control of my tongue.

“I didn’t fucking call anyone!”

Did I just say that? Out loud?

“Don’t get semantic.” The cloth lowers again, and I suffocate. Call… He thinks I’m avoiding saying I texted someone. Fuck. FUCK! What can I say so I can just fucking _breathe?_

The cloth stays put this time. Five minutes. My vision swirls. I’ve been dying for five minutes.

I’m too disoriented to find the words, so I miss my window. The sixth minute drags on. I swear they keep the hose on me longer this time. Every inch of me boils with acidic cold as my organs hoard every bit of oxygenated blood I have remaining. It only draws the agony out longer.

I claw at the surface. My wrists beg to get free of the restraints. My skin numbs under a tension I’ve put on myself. How much longer until I break my own bones?

I blink away a combination of water and teardrops. Crow looms over me—a blurry mess.

“Who?”

I wheeze. He waits. He’s giving me a chance. I should take it. I’d be a fool not to take it.

“I—”

“Don’t lie to me again.”

“I won’t!”

His fingers linger on the cloth. I catch Lombatto’s vicious grin in the corner. He knows I’ve broken, even if I don’t.

Crow purses his lips. “I don’t believe you.”

He holds me by the scruff of the neck and pushes me under. If it weren’t for my involuntary thrashing, I’d be sure my ankles were tied to the bottom of the sea. I must be among the dead there. My chest coils in an unfreeable knot. Seven minutes. It snaps.

A whip lashes through my blood. A bruise marks my brain. My motor control buckles. I am no longer dying. Clusters of nerves are already dead.

When Crow lifts the cloth, I don’t try to speak. I am going to die. They’re going to torture me until I _end._ I’ve only been here seven minutes. It won’t take eight to kill me.

Even when I inhale the free air, my lungs are shackled. Water spills from my aching lips, dribbling onto the floor.

I can’t help glancing at Lombatto’s revolver. I close my eyes and see the rush—the cold. Punishment is coming.

Crow kneels, shifting his weight. “Aren’t you tired of dying?”

I nod. He hits the nail on the head.

“I can make it stop, you know.”

My lips tremble. How long can I stall? Remember the plan? Remember what will happen if you reveal too much? Fuck… The idea has an appeal.

With a heavy roll of his eyes, Crow lowers the rag. My heart rockets in my chest. The water creeps up to my nose. NO.

“WAIT! Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait…” I blubber.

Lombatto, for once, holds off. I rake in as many breaths as I can through the damp. I don’t trust the ocean. The other shoe will drop any second.

“I didn’t lie. I didn’t…tell anyone.”

Crow leans back in, unveiling my lips. His brow twists, as if he’s unsure he heard me properly. My tongue runs on autopilot.

“I was going to call 911. That was the light. But I didn’t. If you open my phone, you’ll see it’s true. Just don’t put me under again I swear I’m telling the truth this time I swear I swear I swear.”

He pauses. “How do I open the phone?”

“I don’t know. My roommate is the one with the software tricks. I just open it like normal. You can check the call log.”

“What about the app you mentioned?”

“I didn’t want you to fucking _kill_ me.”

Crow nods. I can’t read him. “Tell me the passcode.”

I swallow. Are these going to be my last words? At least I can breathe. Water dribbles down my chest. My shirt is blue again—meth blue—free from the bloodstains.

“5…8…5…4…2…5.”

Crow types the code into the phone, and I hear its familiar click as it opens. A few breaths pass. His eyes lock on the screen. I watch the colors illuminating his face change as he cycles through the apps. It clicks when he closes it. He stows the device away in his pocket.

“Well.” He breathes sharply through his nose, chest puffed. “I am pleased to say we are _done_ with is little detour. Lombatto, put him under another minute for good measure. Then shoot him.”

“No! Please! I don’t even know what’s going on! They’ll look for me—”

The soggy curtain drops. I am promptly whisked away to a world of pain. A bit of breath stands beneath me, but not enough. Patches of light and dark spot like a checkerboard.

At least this is the last time. I hear Lombatto’s gun cock. Another hemisphere of my brain shuts down—drowned in scar tissue. I inhale a full lung. It doesn’t matter anymore. If only my body could get on the same page.

The hose pulls away faster than usual. Have I lost my sense of time? Maybe Lombatto tires of watching me cough and writhe, and just wants to get on with the butchering.

I sputter, still under the cloth as the hose runs next to my ear.

Lombatto snarls, “What do you want, Ferreira?”

Inigo? I can’t see the petite figure in the door, but footsteps hastily shuffle forward.

“Don’t kill him,” he pants.

“Why?” Metal clinks as Lombatto waves his gun around. “Have you grown attached?”

There’s more shuffling. It sounds like paper. The crisp crinkle is a welcome change from all this damp.

“Look.”

Lombatto’s pause is short. “I don’t know what the fuck those numbers mean!”

The paper changes hands. The careful echo of unfurling can only be at the command of the immortal man. Ten seconds pass, and then twenty.

“This can’t be right.” I dare say there’s some trepidation in Crow’s voice. He hisses, “Run them again.”

“I ran them three times already! 948. 947. And 948. They’re consistent.”

Crow gnarls his hands into fists. “That’s…impossible. A 948 MCEC is almost—”

“A guaranteed success.”

The air stifles around me. Feet shuffle. I count my breaths, fighting the lingering cough so I can hear what’s being said.

“Crow…” Inigo draws out, “He already knows. He’s the perfect candidate.”

“He’s a prick.”

“And?”

“And I’m the one who has to deal with him.”

“You know the statistics. We can’t afford to pass this up.”

The following pause lasts for minutes. Finally, I hear paper fold.

Crow exhales, “I suppose…I could arrange _something_.”

Inigo’s shoes squeak on the floor. Crow whips the rag free, letting it settle limply into the river on the floor. When I meet his eyes, they are no longer just black. I attempt to blink away the confusion, but all I see is Hell.

“You lucky bastard,” the immortal man coos, but there is no sincerity in his tone. “It would appear your life is worth something after all.”


	14. 7

7

Inigo slaps me on the back. “It’s speeding up.”

The doctor twirls around on the white tile, the tails of his coat trailing after him. “Ah!” he swoons, “I knew your body would come around eventually! Of course, there’s still a _little_ inflammation. But it’ll fade in the next couple months.”

I pull my shirt back on. Inigo wants to see me every damn day, but I don’t have better ways to fill the time. Luckily, he’s less worried about hazardous side effects now, and more focused on getting me up to optimum performance. Apparently, immortality is still below bar.

“And then?” I can’t help asking. Every day it’s the same thing over and over again. Inigo checks me out, and Crow pounds me into dust. Some evenings I lie in my room, watching the clock or public television or counting the seconds it takes to heal self-inflicted scratches in my arms. But others are more of a blur. Every time I see Crow, my brain short-circuits.

It’s tedious. I don’t know if I’ve been here for one month or ten years. What am I supposed to do when I’m finally ‘operational?’

Inigo smiles, “Then…we see what you can _really_ do.”

Isn’t my body strange enough? I mean…it’s not like Crow. Not yet, at least.

“I almost forgot.” Blue and white capsules appear in his hands. “A double dose. For the next little while.”

I nod and accept. They do make me feel better, even if their effects are somewhat short-lived. The constant fretful trembling baked into my bones dissipates at their dissolution, and the heavy rain lightens. At least Inigo has my best interests at heart… I think.

Would I take them from Crow if I didn’t physically _see_ them emerge from Inigo’s pockets? I purse my lips and consider it. Everything he gives me is just another test, or some way to fuck with me, I’m sure.

“For how long?”

“Until Pretoria, at least.”

“Pretoria?”

“Oh,” he stutters, “I don’t think I was supposed to tell you about that yet.”

Inigo will spill his beans if I ask, but I’m doubtful I’ll remember. Pretoria… It sounds like a place. Am I going somewhere?

I imagine a place. Any place, and the terrible sensations it harbors.

I drag my feet to the training room. At least Crow’s not making me fight him today, but my aim with the weaponry needs work. I’ve only gotten a hang of the revolvers, and knife throwing makes me want to ram my head into the wall. His disappointment is palpable, and nearly as biting as his fists.

He cracks me upside the head twice for confusing bolt-action and break-action, but I otherwise escape unscathed.

My head is clearer than usual when I sit down for dinner. Inigo distributes his spreadsheets over the head of the table, microwave dishes already steaming at three places. I bite down on my teeth, fidgeting with the paltry meal. Inigo is an excellent surgeon, but he can’t cook for shit. Or at least, he doesn’t try.

“Why do we eat like this every day?” I mumble.

Inigo barely looks up from his documents. “Would you rather eat alone in your room?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“I thought you’d enjoy a nice thing like this.”

I flop back in my chair, and Inigo shuffles around in his coat pockets. A blue pill appears besides my water glass.

“You might want this one a little bit early.”

He’s right. I wash it down, and the cloud hanging over me lifts in the slightest. I manage to dig into my meal. It’s frozen in the middle and the edges could cook an egg, but I no longer care. However, as I reach the final throes of the plate, my blood starts to boil.

Crow says nothing. He picks over something on his tablet, hardly glancing at his dinner.

I scowl at him. And then, I scowl harder. Why won’t that motherfucker look at me? He really thinks he’s that great, huh? Just because he can shoot a rabbit through the eye at 300 meters doesn’t mean he’s a damn _god._

I stab at the remaining peas in the plastic bowl, but they’re too slippery for the fork. My strength propels it through the bottom, scratching the table. Neither pays any notice.

Fuck them. I flick a pea at Crow. It bounces off the plain case of his tablet, rolling back my way. His gaze flits up, and he glowers. I make it a point to scowl harder, and flick another pea. This one bounces off his chest.

He stands immediately and hurls a knife into the wood. I half-smile as I recoil.

“I’m gonna peel that shit-eating grin right off your face—”

Before I say I’d like to see him fucking try, Inigo bolts up.

“THAT’S IT! _God!_ I can’t get any work done with your stupid, petty squabbling!” He throws up his hands. “Kohi, don’t do shit you _know_ is gonna get your face peeled off!”

Crow snarls, “I’ll teach him a lesson.” But Inigo stays his blade before he launches over the table.

“NO! I can’t live in this goddamn hellhole with you two at each other’s throats all the time! He flung a pea at you! SO WHAT?”

“He’s insolent.”

“Then sort it out with _words!_ I swear…if you ruin _another_ lovely dinner with your punching and your kicking and the goddamn _blood,_ I’m going to lose my mind.”

Crow scowls and puts his knife back on his belt. Have I really gotten away with it? I stick out my tongue. I don’t see the knife in his other hand until it’s already in my kneecap.

It tears right through the bone. I double over in my chair. Fuck… I really do need to get better at knife throwing…

Inigo raves while I yank it out. I plunge the bloodied blade into the table. Come on then, fight me. Fight me outside that soft room with its rubber mats and mirrors. I’m catching up to you, old man. I—

“KOHI. NO! BAD! BAD KOHI!”

Crow starts around the table, knife drawn. I prepare to pounce on him, but Inigo tackles me first, locking his arms around mine. I slump back to my seat, mostly willingly. Crow hesitates. He can’t tear me to pieces with a mortal in the way.

“I’m sorry, Crow,” he pouts to the looming shadow, “The doses really are tricky at times. Kohi, I need you to take the rest of your medicine for me.”

“I want to kill him.”

“I know you do… But you gotta do this for me first, okay?”

He releases me, and a white pill waits on his palm.

What are my options? Throw him and the pill aside? Enter a death match I’ll surely lose? Inigo can only wait so long before Crow tosses him himself. I suppose, if there’s going to be a fight, I don’t want to be caught with the shakes.

I don’t lift my eyes off Crow as I retrieve the pill, downing it with a healthy dose of water.

Now what? Inigo clings tight. Crow looks like he’s waiting for something. What? Don’t want to fight me anymore? Coward. He’s a fucking coward…

He… I’ll fight him tomorrow. I always fight him in the afternoon. I remember that I hate it.

The tension evaporates from my muscles. My blood returns to a healthy simmer. Crow’s face is totally expressionless. Did he know? Why isn’t he smiling? Am I the bad guy?

The pressure on my arms lifts at Inigo climbs free. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m going to my study. You two… Sort this out yourselves.”

The doctor collects his papers and takes off down the corridor to the right.

I look back to Crow. He hasn’t moved. He must be a statue. Fuck. Is he still going to flay me? Something tells me it wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’m sorry…” I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know I need to say it.

Crow tilts his chin. “Are you?”

I nod.

Leisurely, he plucks his work from the table, shuffling it into a discreet black messenger bag. I wait for him to snap. Inigo isn’t here to save me this time.

The second the surface is clear, Crow turns his attention to me. My heart shakes. Why do his eyes do that?

“Come with me.”

His voice doesn’t carry the same, menacing tone it usually does. It’s too neutral—too tempting. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve stood from my seat, slinking behind him out of the room. I know these halls, but the doors are always locked. The ones I’ve seen are mostly empty anyways. Am I walking into torture willingly? I gulp at the possibility. Do I really feel that guilty over a pea? No… I think…this is different.

Crow opens a door in the east wing, allowing me to enter the room first. It’s covered floor to ceiling in woven taupe grass mats. One mirror hangs off the far wall. A soft glow breaks through the thin paper of a number of false windows.

Crow catches my shoulder before I get too far, demanding I take off my shoes. My bare feet make no sound on the mats. It’s soft… So much softer than the lab. So much softer than Crow.

He lets me sate my curiosity and wander. Impending doom stirs in my belly. I’ve really done it now.

Crow closes the door and retreats to the side of the room. He retrieves two oblong objects in black lacquer and tosses one my way.

The wood is supple, perfectly uniform. But it’s too heavy to just be wood. It’s decorated with bits of metal, and one end is distinctly wrapped in leather. I unsheathe it.

“A sword.”

“A jian,” he corrects. “If you are keen to fight, you should do so with a real weapon.”

I can’t help admiring the steel. My reflection stares back at me, somewhat distorted, enough that I don’t instinctively hate it. It feels…good.

Crow holds an identical blade, though the details on the casing are somewhat different. He wants to fight. Shit… I’m going to get my ass kicked, aren’t I? I haven’t been run through yet. It’ll be a new experience.

But as I stare him down, I don’t feel an overwhelming web of hatred. This is _his_ place, not the training room. He’s been kind enough to invite me here.

“Why?”

“There isn’t much of a place in the world for the sword anymore,” he chimes, “Guns are far more tactical. But there is no _art_ in a gun. Swordplay, however, is left in the hands of those who truly care for it.” He twirls the unsheathed blade around. It flashes in the light. He is, undoubtedly, an expert. “To be a great soldier is one thing. To be an artist is another entirely.”

I study his hands, his stance. I bring my appendages into the same arrangements. Suddenly, the jian feels lighter. I swing it around. It slices straight through the air. My heart leaps, but not out of fear.

My lips coil into a thin smile, same as Crow’s.

“Come on,” he jeers, steadying the blade, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”


	15. VIII

VIII

948? Is that supposed to mean something?

It certainly doesn’t feel like it when I’m shoved back in the room I’ve spent the last four days in.

But I _am_ alive. That’s more than I expected to be able to say.

I count 892 breaths before the door cracks open. Its light illuminates me, huddled in the corner. No matter how much time passes, I feel like I’ll never dry off.

“Ferreira?” I cough. God, my lungs have been boiled. Is he here to fix the cracks in the pot?

The doctor offers me a grin. “The very same.”

“What did you—?” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. What _did_ he do? Shout some random numbers at Crow until he agreed _not_ to torture me to death? He has everything from my phone now. I have no further use to him. And Inigo… He must really be lonely if he thinks we’re that great of friends.

He holds up his hands, bringing out a tube of antibacterial paste to treat the prevailing wounds on my face. Waterboarding, however, does not leave visible scars.

“There’s no need to thank me. You’re the only one in this room brave enough to lie to Crow.”

“Why am I alive then?”

“He wants you. Or more specifically, _I_ want you.” The paste is a relief on my flesh. Does he have food in that bag? I’m starving. Actually…on second thought, I’m too nauseated to eat.

“Why?” I breathe. Inigo takes his time with his answer.

“Do you remember that blood sample I took when we first met?”

I nod.

“I ran some tests on it. Some very _specific_ tests. And the patterns in your blood are very desirable for the work I’m doing.”

“948?”

His jaw clenches, and he nods.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s something called a mutagen carrier endocrine count, or MCEC. Basically, it tells me how agreeable your body is to carry around a unique nanotransmitter.”

He’s lost me. Would Amat understand this? Ah, I doubt even he knows anything about biology.

“And that’s…good?”

“Very good!” he beams. “A high count is _exceptionally_ rare! Only one in a million are anywhere over 500. And it tapers off from there. Which makes you…” he taps my nose, “A real treasure indeed.”

I pause. “So that’s why you didn’t kill me?”

Inigo shakes his head. “It would have been a real tragedy, letting all that precious blood go to waste.”

This time, I grit my teeth. What? So, he just wants my blood for some twisted science experiment? My ire precipitates from my breath.

“So, you’re just going to drain me dry and be done with it?”

Inigo’s brows rocket to the ceiling. He almost looks offended.

“Of course not! My work isn’t worth anything on a corpse. Crow would hardly be worth anything if he were dead in the ground.”

“Crow?”

“My only success…so far.”

What? What does that possibly mean? There _is_ something about him, but nothing I can’t put past his supervillain persona. But… I shake my head violently. I have no idea what this endocrine business has to do with that goddamn monster. Just visualizing his smile floods my throat. I have to stop. I have to breathe.

I wrap my arms around myself, pulling deeper into the corner. I…

No. He’s just a man. Think about his feet, not his face. Just a boot. That’s not so scary, right?

“Who is he?” Please answer, Inigo. I have nothing else to contemplate in this space.

“Crow is… How would I describe him? A soldier? A mercenary? He’s a success. That’s all that ever seems to matter.”

“But where did he come from? Why are _you_ working with him?”

Ferreira scoffs, “Well, I can’t do my work all by myself! It’s expensive, you know! And I’m not one for gathering funds. Crow, luckily, has the skills required to bring in whatever we need. All thanks to me, of course. Well, mostly. He was pretty capable before we met.”

“And when was that?”

He scratches his chin. “Hmmm… It must have been…about eight years ago now. Time really does fly, doesn’t it? Oh, you should have seen the old lab, dug out of some mountain in Xinjiang like a Bond lair. You should consider yourself lucky! This place has all the amenities compared to that shit hole.”

“That’s…somewhere in China? You worked there?”

“I—” Inigo falters, “I really shouldn’t talk about it. But…I find his humble origins quite charming. Humanizing, you know? He worked hard to get to his position. His superiors thought he would be strong enough for the procedure, and they were right. He was _more_ than alright.”

I hang my head. It makes sense. He must have lived through pain to learn to dish it out. But Ferreira hasn’t told me shit about this so-called ‘procedure.’ If he did it on Crow, it certainly didn’t kill him. Is it some controversial cure for cancer, or MS, or the common cold? Ferreira said Crow was a soldier. Is the military involved? Whose? And what could be so secretive they’d kill witnesses over it?

“So, what happens now? Can I go home?”

“I am afraid not,” he softens, “I will need to keep a close eye on you. And, well, you still know what you know, and we very well can’t have you on the streets with that knowledge, especially when the city is looking for you.”

There’s no point asking, but I do it.

“Will they find me?”

“No.”

My breath releases. My knees curl in tighter, putting pressure on my ribs. After four days, I’ve gotten used to the ache. Ferreira packs up his supplies. There’s less for him to do today. He leaves me a water bottle, a tangerine and a granola bar.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I mumble. The doctor places a hand on my shoulder. His hands are so warm they burn right through the fabric of my shirt in spite of the persistent damp.

“Give it time. Lord knows you’re going to have lots of that.”

No. He can’t just _leave._ I can’t—I can’t just sit here.

“Don’t go.” I call him back, dragging him down by the straps of his bag. The front pocket pops open, revealing a variety of tools, but no additional food.

“Even in your broken state, I’m afraid the risk is too great. My strength is nothing to brag about.”

“But…tomorrow?”

I receive a smile. “Yes, tomorrow. And the day after that, for the next six weeks. Until those pesky ribs are healed, at least. You will need to be at full strength before I can even _consider_ running my test.”

Six weeks? That sounds like a made-up number. That’s another month and a half. I’ll starve to death long before then. How many seconds will I count before then?

The wait looms, and a glint of metal in the folds of the fabric bag calls my name.

Inigo is too preoccupied trying to heighten my spirits to notice my fingers slip into the carrier, wrapping around the handle of his scalpel. I could use it now—slit his throat, steal the keys and make a break for it. But…

I don’t watch Inigo go. I’m preoccupied with thoughts of drowning. My lungs are deflated to half their size, and as I dig into the granola bar, my headache worsens. I coil into a ball on the ground. Next time, I should ask Ferreira for Advil. If I’m not being tortured anymore, perhaps painkillers are on the table.

Although, Ferreira didn’t confirm torture was _off_ the table either. With my performance today, I don’t think I’m on Crow’s good side. And now I have to put up with him for six fucking weeks.

I hide the blade in the band of my jeans, careful to position myself on the floor so the point is clear of my skin. If Crow, Green or Lombatto try to fuck with me again, they’ll have another thing coming. And just _maybe_ , their goddamn necks will be enough to clear my way to freedom.

I want a real doctor. A real hospital. And _fuck,_ I want to see my fucking friends. I wish Crow would leave me with the husk of my phone so I could at least reminisce in my solitude. Amat must be losing his mind. At least he doesn’t need my rent. I’m sorry Amat… I’ll find you when I get out of here. I pray he doesn’t change his name on any of his social media.

Do I even know any phone numbers? How have I known Amat for years and have _no_ idea what his number is? At least that means I couldn’t spit it out, in case Crow decides to threaten everyone I’ve ever had contact with.

As I stare into the unchanging dim of the room, I spot a stain on my arm.

That’s right. It’s been a while since I’ve looked at it. 847-603-5519.

I doubt Olivia’s even worried about me. Although, I guess I did go missing from her place. She’s probably so stressed—having to talk to police during midterms. She certainly doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this.

847-603-5519. In 100 breaths, I’ve memorized the numbers. 847-603-5519. They play in my head like a song. 847-603-5519. I have nothing to do but rake in air, and pray I have an excuse to plug them into a phone someday, somewhere on the surface.


	16. IX

IX

I sleep on the cold stone, hugging myself for warmth for the fourth night in a row. My eyes flicker open at what I assume is the morning, but the lack of daylight, or even darkness, is cracking me. I imagine sitting through this for six weeks, and my stomach drops.

I check the knife hasn’t torn me open in my sleep. It’s still sharp, but only about two inches long. I’ll have to be clever to do real damage. Next, I look at my arm. The sharpie has faded even more, but it doesn’t matter. The numbers are burned into my brain.

My swelling has gone down. When I feel my face, I think I almost look like _me_ again, but I’m glad there’s no mirror. Surely, I’m the same shades of black and blue plastered over my ribs.

I poke them. Still sore, especially after sleeping on the hard concrete. But there’s nothing even Inigo can do for them but wait.

Right… Six whole weeks…

I smack my head on the rough stone. I need a better hiding place for this knife.

Metal creaks, and I hastily shove it back into my beltline. I steady my breathing. I’ve lied to them once. I can do it again.

However, I don’t see who’s on the other side. The door cracks just enough to slip a flat cardboard box through the gap, hastily followed by an entire gallon of water. The jug _thwaps_ on the floor.

I wait. One second. Two… Three… I crawl to the jug with the caution of a tentative cat. Oh, sweet mercy… It’s real. I uncap it.

I can’t smell anything wrong with it. But there is a smell in the room. A good smell. It’s leaks out of the box.

I lift the lid and unearth an entire large pizza slathered in a healthy topping of green peppers, mushrooms and pepperoni. It’s still hot. My mouth waters like Pavlov’s dog.

It wouldn’t make sense to poison me now. I devour the whole pizza in one sitting, washing down the dry crust with water. My stomach has _never_ been so happy. It feels like only five minutes between the aroma first hitting me and the box lying empty.

I flop back onto the stone. I should have saved some pieces. I have no idea if they even plan on feeding me again. But the long-awaited fullness in my gut is its own reward. Shit, I’m tired of starving.

I lay the ungreased side of the pizza-box over my eyes to acquire some much-needed darkness, and promptly pass the fuck out, luckily forgoing the uncomfortable bloating I know is coming.

All I know is I’m less tired than usual. The room still smells faintly like cheap pizza. It’s a welcome change from salty blood.

When my eyes flutter open, I drink a bit more water. I’m already hungry again. I must have slept at least six hours.

I toy with the scalpel. Is the blade long enough to break through a ribcage? Maybe I can sever a tendon. There are body parts more sensitive to pain, as my face and chest can attest to. I doubt I’ll be lucky enough to castrate one of the bastards, but I’ll sure as hell try.

I gain enough energy to stand, still making sure I don’t twist my torso too fast as I practice with the knife. My own shadow is the best approximation I have for a target. I have to know how to hold it, and how to strike quickly.

I’m still on my feet when I get another visitor. This seems to surprise Green, as his blocky eyebrows inch closer to his bald crown.

I tuck the knife away beneath his notice. After nearly a week, I’m an expert at recognizing footfalls approaching the steel door.

“Say goodbye to this room, whelp,” he announces, “It’s the last time you’ll see it.”

“Where am I going?”

“Boss says you’ll be staying here a while, and your current accommodations don’t meet some requirements.” He can say that again. “Now, do you want to do this the easy way, or the hard way?”

I can’t say I’m enthralled by the idea of breaking more bones. I did get a nice meal… Maybe Inigo’s played his hand. If he needs me healthy, it makes sense to move me to a nicer room.

I salivate over the dream of a bed. Green snaps his fingers.

“Did you hear me? Get your ass out this door, or I’ll carry your corpse over.”

It seems it’s just him, so I take my chances. I size Green up as I exit. Damn. I doubt my blade would even get through his thick hide. He’s like a rhinoceros. I’ll have to be more creative.

He cocks a gun on the back of my head, keeping it poised as he directs me down the maze of halls. Every one looks the same. Green could blindfold me, and I would take in the same amount of spatial information.

My sneakers squeak in the hall. It seems to stretch on forever. Is he walking me in circles? What if I’m wrong? What if he plans on shooting me outside like an old dog, and the pizza was my last meal? I think about grabbing the knife, and we stop.

Green trains his gun on me as Lombatto jingles a set of keys, waiting at a new door. This one is also metal—fireproof—but it has a window. That’s a good sign.

Am I really excited to spend more time in this place? I want to smack myself. Like hell I’ll develop fucking Stockholm Syndrome.

Green prods me through the opening. It’s dark, but I guess there’s no reason for the lights to be on. Wait—there is a light. Otherwise, how would I see Crow, waiting so patiently inside?

I trip the rest of the way in, feet suddenly malfunctioning at the sight of my new accommodations.

The room is divided into two equal segments, both frightfully small. They are separated by a bulky set of cast iron bars. The door hangs open. It’s barely sized for a person. Both rooms are completely empty save for the bluish light draping over the exiting half. I spot another hose in the corner, but there’s no plank.

I gulp… I’m hesitant to say my lungs are safe.

Regardless, the cold stone bleeds through the soles of my shoes, and I shiver.

“Glad to see you didn’t give Green too much trouble,” Crow smirks. “I was afraid all _this_ had gone to your head.”

I glance at the goons—faithfully posed against the door while Crow goes on his tirade.

“I thought Inigo wanted—?”

“You to stay somewhere nice? I guarantee he said nothing of the sort.” Fuck this guy: reading my mind like that. “ _This_ is where you need to be, so it’s where you’re going to remain.”

“My ribs—”

“Will heal on cold stone the same as they will in a soft bed.”

Words are lost on me. My heels stick in the ground. That room is a _prison—_ a black hole. My brain screams. If I go in there, I’ll never see the light of day again.

But if I don’t…

“Let’s see them.”

It almost sounds like a whim coming out of Crow’s mouth, but I can’t believe he does anything without meticulous purpose. Why? Does he want to break them again? Make me symmetrical? But I see where this is going. If I don’t comply, he’ll claim I don’t _want_ help, and I’ll have to beg for his forgiveness.

So, reluctantly I raise the hem of my shirt. Crow’s eyes follow it up. I wheeze as my arms pull over my head. He holds out his hand, beckoning I toss the shirt to him. I do. A chill runs across my back, but at least I smell a little better.

Crow’s eyes study me. I keep my hands at my sides. I’m not broken, despite what the rainbow on my side may say.

“You certainly could be _worse._ Shoulders are a little narrow… And your chest needs work. But overall…this is a good starting point.”

What? Why the fuck does that matter? Is he just trying to creep me out? My arms twitch. My chest is fine, thank you very much. Although… I guess his _is_ better.

Crow’s eyes fall to my feet. “Now, your shoes.”

I spit, “Why?”

“You’re not going outside, are you?”

I grimace and peel the battered sneakers off by the heel. I really do need new ones. They’re practically falling apart. Is that why Olivia made me leave? If her roommate saw these shoes, I’d be embarrassed too. Regardless, I kick them angrily in Crow’s direction. They topple at his feet, both missing, unfortunately.

“And the socks.”

“ _NOW_ you’re just being an asshole.”

“The. Socks.”

My ribs groan as I bend to get rid of them. At least I can successfully fling the fabric. They bounce off Crow’s torso, and they smell even worse than my shirt. Crow still hasn’t moved. What? Does he want to jack off to my feet before isolating me in this box?

He exhales. “Take off your jeans.”

I…

“No.”

“Do you think I want to strip-search you? But I can’t have you going in there with anything _unfavorable_ , and you stink like a barn animal.”

“I think you do, actually,” I sneer.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! God, I don’t even care about the jeans. I spend 90% of my time around Amat in my fucking underwear. But my jeans are the one place I have to hide the scalpel.

He knows… No! Don’t be so negative! This is just a precaution. He’s a cautious guy. However, the origin of my predicament does nothing to change its outcome.

I have to act. Both Lombatto and Crow have keys, and I’m still free of that black box. I grit my teeth. Using my strength is going to hurt.

I motion to unbutton my pants. I move my fingers gradually. I haven’t been in a fight sober for god knows how long. That should make it interesting. My fist clasps the hot steel, and I lunge at Crow.

I make a swipe at his eyes, but he bends back. However, I don’t miss entirely. The steel catches his cheek, tearing through his lips and out the other side of his face. Take that you motherfucker!

But… Crow doesn’t even falter.

His feet remain planted. He tilts back from the shadow, allowing me to fully view the blood running down his chin. His cheek hangs open like a side of pork. Did I really just do that to a person? Mutilate him? He hasn’t blinked.

Impossible. Does he not feel pain?

I catch movement on his face. Is his skin sloughing off? No… But it _is_ moving. It’s… That… No…

I blink, hard. This is my imagination, right? There’s no _fucking_ way I just watched his face stitch itself together in seconds.

My grip trembles. Is he an honest-to-god monster? Some Eldritch horror sent from the depths to terrorize me? I have to end it. Now. Before it gets worse.

I rush forward and stab the scalpel directly into his chest. The point burrows through his ribs. Not enough to kill him, but Crow doesn’t flinch.

The weapon sticks in bone. I can’t pull it free. I take the only path remaining, stumbling back through the cold room as Crow takes his first step forward. His eyes burn as he grabs hold of the weapon. Metal clatters on the floor. He takes another step. My retreat is shaky. The iron door looms at my back.

I watch, horrified, as the bloody hole in his chest closes up, leaving only a clean patch of skin poking through the tear in the fabric.

“Did you really think that would work?” Crow leers, “Perhaps you really _didn’t_ see anything of note that night. Or, you really are that stupid.”

I slip and struggle for balance. He backs me up against the wall. Fuck. Should I take a swing at him? I imagine the resulting ache if I do. And to what end? Is this happening for real? I thought… I thought it was just some trick.

“I don’t understand…”

“Then let me enlighten you,” Crow snarls, “ _This_ is reality in this place. Try to kill me as many times as your little heart desires. You will not succeed. You see, the world’s greatest powers have scrambled to develop the super soldier since the dawn of the Cold War. None of them, however, expected the answer to come from a basement hermit in Campinas.”

“Inigo…”

“Is a genius, in his own right. So, take a good _long_ look, boy. He’s taken an interest in you. Do you know what that means? What he wants? We’re not keeping you for your _charisma. This_ is what you’re meant to become.”

He… That’s what? That’s what he meant by ‘procedure?’ That’s what all this MCEC nonsense leads to? He wants to use me as a guinea pig…to make me like…like…like _him_.

My heart beats out of my chest. “I won’t…”

“I don’t _care_ what you do, or what you want, or what makes your fucking skin crawl. I have a contract to fulfill, and when I have a contract, you bet your ass I fucking _fulfill_ it. So…strip,” he growls, “And _get_ in that goddamn cage so I can wash the _stench_ off of you.”

Crow’s hiss gets under my skin. I hear myself flat-line as Crow grants me the space necessary to move, though my fingers are weak and clumsy. I fumble at my zipper like I’ve suddenly got frostbite. My knees won’t stop shaking. And they certainly don’t stop when my pants slump to the floor, bringing my underwear down with them.

I keep my bits covered, mostly because of the cold. Mostly because if I don’t have something to do with my hands, I’ll embarrass myself shaking.

Crow gives me a quick once-over, but I finally believe he’s not interested. He grabs my shoulder where it meets my neck, and guides my shuddering body through the tiny door. I barely duck in time to get my head through. It clicks behind me, but I’m apprehensive to turn around. I’m not getting my clothes back, am I? This is…a lot less fun that I usually have naked.

A spray of water suddenly soaks my back. I wince and coil up, straining my ribs, and I buckle again. The caked layers of grime and blood run free of my skin, but the water is so icy it’s a form of torture all on its own.

I retreat to the corner, but I can’t hide from the strength of the hose. I focus on warming my internal organs, but my hands can’t cover _all_ of me. I’m forced to change positions, and Crow targets anything he might have missed. Even my brain is cold. Better to let him be done fast, than resist and drag it out longer.

The hose clicks, and the room returns to a quiet drip, pattering against the flagstone. The hose flops to the floor on the other side of the bars. There’s nothing on this side—not even a bench or a fan or a light bulb—just a football-sized hole I assume leads to the sewer. The water runs towards it slowly, following the slight incline of the floor.

Wet hair hangs over my eyes as I pull tighter into the remaining back corner. My fingers are pale, and my toes are blue. I shiver, rocking myself against the stone to recover some semblance of warmth. I cross my calves for modesty _._ I feel water in my lungs again. Again…

I cough and shudder, emptying nothing.

Lombatto and Green file out, but Crow holds the door. He smirks, the hole in his shirt catching the light.

The asshole has already made it abundantly clear. His smile says _one_ thing, and it’s the very last thing I want to hear.

Welcome home.


	17. 8

8

I tense my grip on the leather pommel of the jian. He’ll come from the right this time, I’m sure of it. I raise the sword and parry with the flat edge, then flip it around. Maybe I can catch him on the dismount. But Crow’s feet are fast. The sword slices at air, and the space between us clears again.

I circle. If I’ve learned one thing from these matches, I have to stay light on my feet. Crow follows suit. When I reach the opposite side of the room, I spring. He ducks under the throw, stabbing from below. My torso tightens as his blade skims by me, and I fight for breathing room, locking blades until I muster the strength to pry him off.

Crow’s face is softer free from fluorescent lights, but that isn’t the only factor. Sure, I’ve taken a nick or two in these matches, even lost a couple of fingers. But this place is not the training room. I might not know shit about guns, but in _here_ , I’m a goddamn natural.

I feign right. Crow sees through it, but not fast enough. My blade skips through his forearm, whipping a thin line of blood over the mats.

A grin creeps up on me. I know I’m good. It’s the first time I’ve felt _good_ about something since…since… Maybe I can get in another strike while he’s healing. But I forget his rate has already settled, and it’s faster than mine. The same wound would have taken thirty seconds on me, but on him, it only took ten.

I trip when my second attack is foiled. I lose my balance as I contort my arm to block a stab at my back. I’m in the clear as I tumble head-over-heels, but not for long. I raise the jian. I need space to stand. But from the ground, I’m at a disadvantage. His blade entangles mine, catching the handle. Crow quickly disarms me and points the tip of his blade at the soft warmth of my jugular.

I catch my breath. He _could_ stab me—teach me a lesson. But he seems pleased.

“You’ve improved.” His facial muscles are static.

“I would hope so.” I cock my head, no longer fearing the sword. “Two weeks of hard work can’t mean nothing.”

“Don’t get overconfident,” Crow tips my chin up with the blade. “You still have a long way to go.”

“Until Pretoria?”

He scoffs, “I doubt even _you_ will master the blade in a week.”

Wait… A week? I thought they’d at least wait until my healing rate settled, but Inigo _did_ say it could take years to reach its final potency.

I grasp the blade and push it aside. It doesn’t even cut my fingers. “What’s in Pretoria?”

Crow sheathes the sword. “A job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Always with the questions.”

“I’m going, aren’t I? So, when are you going to tell me?”

Crow beckons I pass him the other blade from the ground. He sheaths it as well, and puts both back caringly on the display wall while I dust myself off. There are only two tears in my shirt today, but two too many. I take the soiled thing off. It’s covered in sweat, and I need a shower. I should leave it off next time, or it’ll just wind up in the trash with the rest.

The floor, on the other hand… Crow was smart enough to put down a tarp after the first duel with another immortal opponent. 

He purses his lips in the slightest. “I suppose… You will need to know the plans eventually.”

My heart beats faster. Calm down.

“We have a shipment to make to one of our business partners.” He fiddles with the scabbards while he talks, making sure there are no dents on the casings. “We get paid to complete contracts, and sometimes, we need to make payments for the equipment used in our operations. And lately, we’ve burned through a lot of equipment. Perhaps it’s fitting this will be your first assignment. You _are_ the one who incurred most of the costs, after all.”

“If it’s just a payment—”

“Cash takes up too much space. Our benefactor prefers to be paid in a _different_ currency—one we happen to have on-hand. It will be much easier to take to him in person.”

I nod. It has to be something valuable: like diamonds or data.

“You will be travelling with me, by plane, with the payment to South Africa. There, we will meet with our benefactor, complete any common courtesies to keep our relationship intact, and make the journey back. It should take no more than four days. Is that clear?”

“I’ll get to go outside?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Kohi. You are expected to _behave_. I trust you understand what will happen if you cannot fulfill your duties.”

“I’ll behave,” I swallow. Where the fuck would I go anyways? I just want to _do_ something. I don’t care if it’s just shoving shit in a suitcase and bringing it halfway around the world. I haven’t been to an airport in years. Will I be able to keep my cover?

“Inigo will provide you with supplementary briefing throughout the week. You need to be prepared, physically and mentally, for this task.”

I put on a brave face. I want him to believe it. I know I’m no good with the artillery, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing _most_ of the time, but… Letting Crow down, whether or not he punishes me, feels unfathomable.

“If you do well…” he pauses, “You’ll get to go out more frequently. You _are_ meant to be an asset, after all, _not_ a liability.”

“I won’t let you down.” Should I kneel? I feel like I should kneel. But I keep my feet. My muscles jitter with excitement.

Crow retreats from the swords. He stalks across the room, his shadow a puddle at his feet. I look him in the eyes. I’ve done that more frequently as of late. It’s hard to avoid in a swordfight. I can’t remember staring at him for other reasons. But there’s always a twitch in my legs—a chill in my lungs­—like I should know something’s about to happen.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Good. That’s good, Kohi. Just do everything I say, and you won’t.”


	18. X

X

The pizza doesn’t agree with me, and I spend the next twelve hours shitting into a hole. The worst part is, when it’s finally over, I kind of miss my roiling guts. At least it was something to do.

I stare at the faded numbers on my arm. They’ve almost washed off completely, and the dark room does nothing in their favor. 847-603-5519. I can’t forget. I won’t.

For the most part, I spend my time huddled in one of two damp corners, either shitting my guts out or making a feeble attempt to get warm. Moving around helps, but is it worth it in the damp? More importantly, is it worth straining my ribs even more? Cold stone being the same as a soft bed is utter bullshit. I can only lie flat on my back without crying, and when I lie like that, my body heat promptly escapes from my limbs. My only option is to hunch in the corner, the walls supporting my back, and pray I tire enough to sleep.

It’s a terrible thing, being tired. My eyelids weigh two tons, and I’m happy to let them settle. My brain wants nothing more than to start the day over fresh, even if it means waking up in this place. How long have I been up? When was the last time I ate? Oh, right… Could I at least have some toilet paper? Even another “shower” wouldn’t be so bad if I could wash my ass.

But no. My brain _begs_ to drift off, but every time it nears the zenith, a shiver shoots through my limbs, and I remember just how fucking cold I am. I do this…for presumably hours—days, even. Just cycling through consciousness, never being fully allowed to settle in the depths. The sleepless nights remind me of the ache in my chest when strapped to the plank. Why couldn’t he just let me go?

I shudder again and feel my feet. My hands are ice, but my feet are somehow colder. I tuck them under my thighs, but as soon as I do, my balls shrivel in the chill. I breathe into my hands and try to shelter them. And then I do that again, over and over, switching positions as the hours tick on in the dark, no sign of night or day.

Inigo does not bring me food or water. There’s no bucket to clear out from the cell, so there is no reason for my caretakers to break through the bars. Green unlocks the first door, and the room floods with a trapezoid of pallid blue light. I stay tight in my corner.

His keys jangle at a solid rectangle near the floor. A slot opens, and he passes a paper plate befit with a ham sandwich through, alongside another plastic water bottle.

I don’t make a move for hours. But my stomach is finally settled, and my body needs fuel _desperately._

I eat the sandwich first, then pick up the water. The seal is broken. Shit… Did they put something in here? I rack my brain for a possible reason they would want to poison me. I suppose it could be something non-lethal—just to cause me more pain. Or are they _trying_ to drug me? Make me see things on the walls?

I leave the water bottle aside. My throat is parched and a terrible cluster headache slinks up as I make yet another failed attempt to sleep.

847-603-5519… Amat won’t just give up on me. Neither will Chuck. Although, he won’t be able to do much from Seattle. He can’t just move across the country to put up posters. But he’ll try. I’m sure he’ll try… Although, I don’t think I want him to.

What if I _can’t_ be found? I wouldn’t want dad wasting his time.

847-603-5519. Maybe holding on to something is pointless.

If I do manage to fall asleep, what will I see? I think of Crow’s bubbling skin—pushing aside oozing blood even when I’m awake. What did Ferreira do to make him like that? Some sort of crazy drug? Nanotech? Did a demon possess him? That would make the most sense, considering his personality.

Whatever it is, he plans on doing it to me too.

  1. So my blood is compatible with his freakshow science experiment. What did I do in a past life to get so unlucky? I look at my arms and imagine thick gashes sinking into them—biting through my veins, and then flesh boiling. When I run my hands over the wound, there isn’t even a scar.



I shake my head. I _did_ imagine that, right? Fuck… I can’t already be losing my mind.

I did only slice Crow’s cheek, but if what I saw at the Red Light was real, even a chest full of bullets can’t keep him down. So, what _can_ kill him? A nuclear bomb?

If I was that strong, could I get out of here? I’m already more fearsome than Inigo, and I could certainly stand up to Green and Lombatto with those powers. I might even slip past Crow. Although, I’m no trained soldier. He was already formidable before Ferreira messed with him.

All I know for sure is…if he turns me into _that_ , there will be no ‘light’ at the end of the tunnel. I can’t escape with their secret. They must have some way to keep me inside forever, and though I don’t know what it is, I trust it will work.

Some hours later, Green traipses into the room. He shoves another paper plate through the food hatch: another ham sandwich.

The water bottle, however, he tosses through the bars.

“Fucking drink!” It bounces off my shoulder, rolling towards the toilet. I pull in like a hermit crab. “It’s not fucking poisoned, shithead,” he growls. “Just fucking vitamins—so you can survive off this here shit food.”

He leaves the room. Is he telling the truth? The water bottle threatens to roll into the toilet, and I panic.

I catch it right before it topples. I siphon off bits to wash my hands after rolling in loose feces. The rest, however, my blood desperately needs. I gulp down the whole thing and feel myself revive like a sponge. The sandwich is less satisfying, but I think that’s two sandwiches in one day. Is that a good sign? Maybe I’ve just lost it.

I hit the empty plastic against the bars. They make slightly different sounds. Maybe I can be a jail cell composer. Who am I kidding? They’re sad symphonies of crunching plastic.

I’m going to waste away in here. Squats warm me up, and I do some calf raises, but everything else involves too much twisting. I’m too tired to exercise much anyways. I manage fifty of each, and then I collapse back to the concrete.

I’ve never been so exhausted in my entire life. The sandwiches seem to come at irregular times too, so I can’t count the days. It has to have been at least three. Or four. Maybe seven? Surely, I haven’t slept more than a cumulative hour.

Can you die of lack of sleep? God…at least if I was dead, I wouldn’t be _awake._

My gaze falls on the bars. Maybe I can knock myself out. If I get a running start—

The door opens again. I cover my privates, though it matters little at this point.

It’s Crow. My heart stops.

He doesn’t say anything. He picks up the hose, sets the nozzle to the appropriate strength for spraying down cars, and approaches the iron.

I shield my face as the icy water bites into me. My skin vibrates. I hiss like a feral cat, glaring whenever there are breaks in the stream. Maybe I _do_ want to know the secret to his immortality. At least then I have a shot at killing him.

He doesn’t stop until I’m thoroughly soaked. I bury my head in my knees. Please warm up. Please warm up. Please… I don’t stink anymore, so please don’t turn it on again.

My head jerks when I hear iron creak.

Crow is at the door. He’s inside.

What?

I scoot back further, the cold penetrating deeper.

Quietly, he pulls out a plastic remote from his arsenal of tools. With the push of a button, Blue Swede’s “Hooked on a Feeling” blasts through a speaker on the other side of the bars. My face contorts in confusion.

“Get up.”

I press myself flatter. No.

He seems prepared for this. He swiftly completes the trek across the ten-by-ten unit. He’ll just pull me up himself.

But Crow whips out a syringe from his belt, already loaded. I catch the gleam of the needle, but don’t get my hands up to stop him from driving it into my neck.

I wince and gasp, but the damage is already done. Strange liquid pulses through me instantly, and Crow steps back.

Is that it? Am I like him now? Oh god, why…?

I rocket to my feet. I know this drug. It’s adrenaline.

My pupils dilate. My fists clench. My teeth grind. I want to see him suffer.

I take a swing at the bird’s neck.

Crow artfully dodges my wrathful wailing. His fist strikes me twice sequentially, right on my battered ribs. I buckle and stumble, nearly hitting my head on the bars. The music blares louder.

The hormones don’t let me slow. I kick at his feet, ignoring my own pain, but miss again. He punches me once in the sternum, and I swear I hear it crack. My back collides with the iron bars, and I slump.

I can’t be done yet… I shake back onto my feet. He’s foolish enough to come in here and dope me up, huh? I have to make him regret it.

Crow catches my right hook in his hand, then twists my arm. My bones bend with him. I scream. He has me immobilized.

His other hand grabs my head, and he rams my face into his knee. My vision blacks out as my brain shakes loose, and he smashes me into his kneecap again. Fat globs of blood fall free of my nose. The swollen bits of my face return to their tortured state. My nose cracks.

But Crow stops before breaking it. I wobble. He takes out my shin.

“Get up.”

I roll, growling, then kick at his legs. Without shoes, the impact wouldn’t be adequate, even if I did catch him. Crow’s boot collides with the side of my ass.

“Get up.”

I fucking tackle him. I grasp at his waist, taking him down with me. But halfway through the fall he escapes my clutches, spinning and nabbing my head so he lands on top of me. I smack against the concrete, landing next to the speaker. The chorus blares as his fists come down on my face.

He’s as strong as Green, but has Lombatto’s precision. Hell, I think he’s even stronger. But he’s pulling his punches, targeting a new area every time I’m about to shatter.

I fumble to grab his arms. But I can’t see anything. The song tapers off in distinctive 70s style, and Crow’s punches slow.

The music drops off entirely, and he releases me.

I sprawl on the floor, beaten bloody for the second time. I’ve burned through the dose of adrenaline, and now, all I want is to lie down and rot.

The door clicks shut behind him. I don’t watch him go, but I know when the light disappears.

Blood pools in the grout as I stare at the dark ceiling.

He didn’t even knock me out.

Please.

Hot tears well in my eyes.

I just want to sleep.

By the time the door opens again, I’ve curled back up in my corner. I scowl at Inigo Ferreira. He acts coy, holding up a tinfoil loaf like an olive branch.

“Good morning,” he chimes. He shoves the baked good through the gap on the floor.

I turn my head. I don’t want to look at him. I can barely see him in the dark, and my left eye is swollen like a grape. He pokes the bread in farther.

“Oh, come on… I made it just for you! Don’t give me that look.”

I can’t bite my tongue any longer. I growl.

“ _Don’t_ pretend like you care about me.”

Ferreira stumbles like he’s startled, but I keep my jaw tensed. He’s not going to beat me to a pulp, no. Inigo intends to do much worse.

“I saved you—”

“You _saved_ me to be your science experiment. I don’t _want_ to be some fucking monster, you goddamn self-righteous prick!”

He pauses, taking in the damp air.

“Is that what you think I want? To make you a monster? No… I want you to be _strong—_ the perfect being! Is that not a gift? You are one of the few lucky enough among the billions of people on this planet to be granted this power. And you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Inigo shakes his head, “No… This is destiny.”

I keep my eyes locked on the wall. It’s more appealing.

He sits cross-legged on the other side of the bars. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him looking around the room, examining every crevice. He doesn’t seem revolted in the least. I furrow my brow. How could he not be? Shit, my face hurts.

“Do you know what Crow’s MCEC is?”

He has my attention, though I pretend he doesn’t.

“752.”

I glance up from my perch.

“The subject’s MCEC needs to be at least 400 to be worth trying the procedure. Do you know what mine is? Mine is right around average: a healthy 16.” Inigo smiles and sticks his thumbs to his chest. “Your MCEC…is the highest I’ve ever seen, and not by a small margin. With numbers like that, you could be even stronger than Crow.”

While the ability to scalp that bastard does sound tempting, it’s not a long-term plan. However, the numbers put a few things in perspective.

Slowly, I unfurl myself and scoot towards the bars. I keep my legs folded as I tear the foil off Inigo’s gift. It smells like banana bread. Is it really breakfast? I could have sworn it was midnight.

“He didn’t take it well, did he?” I say as I pick off the corner. I pop it into my mouth, and almost immediately gag. It tastes like pure baking soda in banana liqueur. It falls from my bloodied lips with a splat.

“This is disgusting.”

“I’m sorry,” Inigo winces, “I swear I’m an excellent surgeon. But I’m not a great cook.”

I shove the loaf back towards the opening. “I can see that.”

Another pause passes.

“You asked something?”

“About Crow.”

“Oh, right… If he took it well,” Ferreira inhales, “No.”

Well, at least this treatment isn’t the bastard’s definition of ‘nice.’

Inigo continues, “Crow has been not only successful, but the _most_ successful at everything he’s undertaken in his life. The idea of being second best… He won’t allow it.”

“So, he’ll kill me.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it! He won’t admit it, but we need you. Green and Lombatto can only do so much, and we can’t just recruit people off the street.”

“Is that why he came here?” My eyes fall back to the stone. “To feel superior?”

“I wish I could say it was that simple. But Crow is not one to act on emotions. Although, you certainly get to him—maybe enough that he’d act so brashly.”

“And why did you come?”

“How are your ribs feeling?”

“Exceptionally bad.”

“Oh dear. I’ll get you some calcium supplements.”

I scoff. The simple pleasures, I guess.

Ferreira stands.

“Wait.” I hold him at the door again. My tongue trembles. “How long have I been here?”

I have to know. Just, give me some good news. Six weeks can’t be that much farther, can it?

The corners of his mouth pull down in a long grimace. “Two days.”


	19. 9

9

Ferreira sits me down at a table in the lab. It’s almost entirely clear of papers, which makes me think Crow set it up. The documents are laid out nicely, and he wheels out a bulky television set connected to a VHS player.

He makes me watch a series of corny videos from the 90s about air travel, South Africa, and Nelson Mandela. I’m falling asleep by the time the briefings are over. This is the third day I’ve reviewed this shit. But the deadline is closing in. Tomorrow, we leave. Tomorrow, I’ll finally see the sun.

“What time is the flight?”

“It’s late.” He hands me a print out of the ticket receipt. “But I need you here bright and early. We have a few things to sort out, and you need to make it to the airport on time. Crow will drive you. Do you remember what to look out for?”

“Metal detectors, drug screenings and dogs.”

He nods. “It’s likely you’ll get stopped. If they ask, tell them you have a pacemaker, and stand in a different line than Crow if you can. It’s more suspicious if you travel together.” He shuffles through the papers again, finally coming around to one that was on top the whole time. “Here.” He hands me a pocket-sized navy booklet. “This is your passport for the mission.”

I crack it open, examining a very normal-looking picture of me, but my name is Nick Hearst. I am 25 years old, born in Nashville, Tennessee. I’m not really 25 already, am I?

“Crow will go by the name Kevin Huang. You are to call him that at all times when traveling, but not when you meet with De Vries. He knows Crow as Crow, and he won’t like it if you call him something else.” I nod again. “Crow will give you the details for the meetup. Don’t worry about making contact with De Vries. Your primary role is observer, so don’t try anything stupid.”

“What about my stuff?” I don’t have any.

“I’ve packed your suitcase. It will have everything you need, be it the contents may be somewhat surprising.”

Ah, right. The payment. I’m sure Inigo and Crow have taken care of it. All I need to do is drag the sucker around the globe.

“What about money?”

“Here’s your wallet. Complete with fake IDs and 6500 Rand. You have _one_ credit card—in case you get in trouble. It links to an offshore holdings account. Don’t use it without Crow’s approval. When you land, get to the hotel as quickly as possible. Don’t let the payment out of sight. Your meeting with De Vries is the following evening. Stay inside until the payment is made. Then, you have one day before your flight home. The flights are long. Take your medication on time, and keep track of the time change. I’ve packed you some sleeping pills in case it’s too uncomfortable.”

I nod again. Just follow directions and don’t fuck up, and there shouldn’t be an issue.

Finally, Inigo warns, “If you _do_ get in trouble with the police, don’t worry. Crow will get you out. His number and mine are both saved on your phone. Even if you can’t call him, he’ll pick you up.” I can’t tell if he means it genuinely, or as a threat.

“Do you have any more questions?”

I shake my head. Inigo leans back in his seat. “Then get your rest. God knows you’re going to need it.”

I rise bright and early, skipping into the lab five minutes early. I didn’t even have time for a self-hate spiral this morning.

Crow leans against one of the sharp desks with his arms crossed. Ferreira taps away at a keyboard. I give them both a taunting grin.

“I’m not late.”

“No.”

“What time are we leaving?”

Crow checks the clock from his perch. “Four hours should be sufficient.”

“What are we doing for the next four hours, then?”

Inigo spins around in his chair, making a familiar gesture for me to disrobe. I tear off my shirt, but he needs me in medical pants too. I use the table as a shield to replace my jeans. I should have known there’d be a final check-up.

I sit on the table and wait for Inigo to finish up his work. Crow isn’t normally present, but I guess he wants to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.

Also out of place is an evergreen suitcase with the handle propped up, and a small black backpack I assume is mine. A fresh coat of dirt sits on them—obscuring the fact that they’ve never been used.

I shouldn’t be so excited to crack it open. Of course I wouldn’t dream of stealing anything. I just want to know what I’ve been studying for all week.

Inigo checks my heartrate and my healing time. He prods the microchip in my thymus and confirms the inflammation doesn’t pose a threat. The infection in my throat has long disappeared. Infections don’t heal like wounds, unfortunately, but my body still drives them out faster than normal.

The surgeon puts down his tools. I clap my hands together.

“So, am I _physically_ ready?”

Ferreira has no negative comments this time. I’m right where he wants me, and he knows it. So come on, where’s my praise?

“Not quite.”

This time, Crow speaks up. His back peels off the row of desks, revealing a weighty black tote. He drops it on the table with me. Its contents spill free.

Six white blocks, each the size of on old mobile phone and secured in cellophane and duct tape, roll out. I’ve never seen it in real life before.

“This is cocaine.”

“Three kilograms. Equivalent to ninety thousand dollars.”

“This is the payment for De Vries?”

Crow nods, “It will cover the rhodium in your chip, and his guns.”

I see. Ferreira mentioned his connections to rare earth mining.

“Are you taking it in your suitcase? Or does it go in mine?”

“It’s not going in a suitcase.”

My brow furrows. There’s no way we can just _take_ it on the plane. Unless Crow plans on paying someone off. Maybe he means to hitch a ride in the cargo hold. We’re probably the only people that could survive the trip.

But what he implies is much worse than twenty-seven hours of oxygen-deprived unconsciousness. Crow jabs a finger at my belly.

“It’s going in you.”

I ice over. “…What?”

“You heard me. It’s the safest way to transport. Airline security could eat you out and never know something’s amiss.”

“But it’s…three kilograms…”

I’ve heard of people swallowing drugs, but this is six bricks—seven pounds. I can’t shove one of those down my throat even if I break my jaw. Crow reads my mind.

“Oh, no, no, no. We’re not going to make you swallow it, Kohi. I’m not that cruel. But someone with your _abilities_ can easily wear the drugs, like an implant.”

I swallow. “An…implant?”

“We’ll have to put them in one at a time, of course, so your skin can stretch. Six at once would overwhelm your body’s natural blueprints.”

I look at the pile. How the _hell_ is all that going to fit inside of me? My stomach churns. “Can’t you take half?”

Crow lifts his unusually casual shirt. He twists in the light. A faintest rectangular line shimmers beneath his skin.

“I’ve already done my part. In case of trouble, at least one of us needs to function at full capacity. And frankly, you’re not skilled enough to run point on this task.”

Fuck, he’s right. My limbs quake. Am I really going through with this? I want to see the sun _so_ bad. It’s not like Crow hasn’t done it himself, so it can’t be that dangerous. But still… The thought is nauseating. 

Crow doesn’t let me think about it anymore. “Lie down.”

My body does so of its own volition. I can’t stop trembling. I suck my stomach away from his fingers as he lays the packages by my sides. I don’t like him looking there. I’m going to disappoint him.

Crow, however, doesn’t cut into me. Inigo is the only one with the necessary precision to organize my organs around the payment. And Crow has already taken the liberty of standing at the head of the bench. He doesn’t strap me down, but requests I raise my hands above my head. He presses on my wrists lightly. I could kill Inigo if I lash out.

I know I’ll burn off an anesthetic in a few minutes, but…at least I’d have a few minutes. Don’t they have enough in stock to keep pumping it into me? I don’t want to be awake.

“Are you ready?”

No. But what am I supposed to say?

I bare my teeth as the scalpel slices into my belly.

My heaving breath sprays blood onto Inigo immediately, but his apron, goggles, and latex gloves protect him. He works quickly to outrace my healing. The knife sears through my skin and muscle from sternum to pelvis. He hefts out a handful of intestines. Bloody juices spill onto my lap. I grit my teeth harder, struggling to breathe. God, I really do hate my guts.

They rest on my bare chest as Inigo shoves the first brick into the gap. It presses into my kidney. I wince at the gravity on my spine, but Crow holds me down.

Inigo hastily places my organs back inside the cavity. My skin has already started to bubble. He guides the two flaps back to center, and after another minute of labored breathing, the wound stitches itself closed.

I wriggle my torso around, testing if I can feel the lump. I think it bothers me more that I can’t sense it at all.

The surgeon wipes down my stomach to clear off the blood. When he can see again, he makes an identical incision straight down my middle. I know it’s coming this time, and my shock has died, but the pain takes longer to dissipate. My head falls back and my eyes shut. I hold my breath.

The second brick finds a home next to my other kidney. I keep my eyes closed as I long for the pain to end. The pieces of skin make contact, and I inhale.

“How’s that?” Ferreira asks. “Do you want to move around a bit? See how it feels?”

“Ferreira…” Crow interrupts.

“Ah, right, right. I suppose there’s no point until we’ve dealt with it all.”

He wipes me down. My pants are already thoroughly soaked, and blood drips down the bench to the floor.

The third cut feels like picking at a scab. My breath escapes in haggard pants as Inigo removes a fresh lump of slippery small intestine. He stacks another on top of the existing two. My bowels long to spill out of the break, and he has to pull on the flaps to guide them over my displaced guts.

My breathing is ragged as I stare down a thin red line running over my belly. The skin is new. I shift around again, and my stomach lurches. I think one is poking it, and I’m queasily full.

The surgeon raises the knife again.

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait… Can I take a break?” I blink to keep the tears out of my eyes. Slowly, Inigo nods.

“Five minutes.”

Crow lets go of my hands. Anchored to the table, I focus on my breath, afraid to touch my gut. The red line slowly clears. I can’t see any rectangles from this angle. Inigo has expertly positioned the bricks under my soft intestines. I certainly don’t have enough fat to round out the edges. I look more like I had a very good trip to an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Five minutes pass much too fast. Crow has to claw at my wrists to get them up again. I fight against his grasp as Inigo makes the fourth incision, careful not to damage any of the cocaine packages. I’m sure it’s impossible for me to overdose, but it would be a quick waste of thirty grand.

The fourth package makes a home, and I immediately want to throw up.

“My stomach—My stomach—” I spit through gags.

“Oh!” Inigo gasps, “I’ve put it too high. I’ll bring it down.” But the fourth session is already over. I have to wait for the next one.

There’s nothing I can do but gag and moan. The slow, terrible ache supersedes the horrible stinging. I can’t hold the tears back any more, and I can’t wipe them away while Crow holds me either.

Ferreira works quickly with the fifth incision. First, he shifts the third and fourth blocks down, and the pressure on my stomach lessens. He grunts as he attempts to pull the flaps of skin together, only managing to touch them in the middle. But once they connect, he pokes down the squishy bits erupting through my outsides like a game of whack-a-mole.

My stomach groans, but this time, out of disgust. Covered in blood, I look like a tomato ready to burst.

Ferreira holds up the final brick and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “One more.”

I avert my eyes. My guts wobble as the knife pulls at them again, no longer secure beneath my ribcage. It’s not so much of a scream, but a tedious whimper that leaks out.

I swear he takes out all of them this time, and then wastes five whole minutes fighting my healing to puzzle the sixth brick in. Finally, Inigo shuffles all my bits into what remains of my abdominal cavity. Am I really expecting _this_ man to be organized? My guts are going to ache for days.

He tugs at my elongated skin, but it refuses to close. He curses under his breath and retrieves a series of metal clamps from his pockets. His gloves are slippery, but he hastens to staple the sides of each to the closing flaps, keeping them taut over my belly. It’s a good idea, and for the first time, my organs don’t feel totally crushed by my own tissue.

It takes longer to settle. I catch my breath as connective tissue reconnects. It’s quickly overtaken by muscle. Skin and fat round out my stomach, and Inigo removes the clips. The marks they left erode, and I lay my head back on the steel.

It’s over. Finally.

I count my breaths.

Crow hands me a towel. “Take a shower. Your things will wait for you here.”

Ugh, I feel like I’ve swallowed a cannonball. “What about the next three hours?”

“Three hours should be sufficient to monitor you. If your body rejects the foreign material, or the pain becomes insufferable, we’ll have to make adjustments.”

I nod. Glancing at my distended abdomen makes me sick, and I don’t want to think about getting naked.

My guts shift in their positions much too close to the surface—burbling under my skin. How long is the plane ride again? …Fucking kill me.

Slowly, I fight my way to sitting position. Everything shifts around inside of me, and I resist the urge to vomit. My thighs drip with blood. Crow won’t appreciate me tracking it down the hall, so I wipe them off first.

Finally, my feet touch the floor. I hold my hands at my sides to steady myself. My balance feels…weird. It might take the whole three hours to get used to it.

Inigo smiles and hands me a plastic bag. Inside is a new set of clothes. I hold it delicately to keep them free of blood.

“Let me know if I made a miscalculation.”

…Right. There’s no way I’m buttoning the jeans I arrived in. That fucker knew the whole time.

I take my first shaky step, trying to get a feel for the weight. The blocks grind against each other—sending frissons up my spine. I choke down a second step. The sun, remember?

Fight through it, and you’ll get to see the sun.


	20. XI

XI

I think they hose me down every other day, but I can’t say for sure. There’s no regularity, even for meals. They serve me the same thing three times so I can’t tell what’s breakfast and what’s dinner. It’s the closest thing I have to time. Thirty-one ham and cheese sandwiches with soup on the side—I’ve been here at least ten days. I’m not starving most of the time, and I certainly haven’t put on weight, so I must be eating at a regular rate.

The bread turns to mush in my mouth. At least it’s soft. It takes a few days for the swelling from my beating to go down, and chewing becomes less painful. But the monotony worsens every day.

I think Crow turns on the speaker every four days. He always hoses me down first, so the appointments must align. And he always comes by shortly after I’ve eaten. I think he wants me energized.

He tells me to get up. When I refuse, he picks me up from the corner and stabs me with adrenaline. He aims for the neck, but in the most recent brawl, I catch the syringe in my palm. It has the same effect, except it hurts more.

I never win our fights. Crow hammers me into the concrete without mercy, always finding new places to beat me black and blue while my ribs mend. _If_ I get out of here, will my face ever look the same?

I don’t _want_ to fight him, but with the drugs surging through my veins, my body moves of its own accord. After three fights, I land one pathetic hit on him, and it’s the best I’ve felt in my _entire_ life. I don’t care how many times he beats me down—as long as I get to feel _that_ again.

I’m sure I would fight him without the adrenaline. If he’s going to beat me anyways—keep me in a constant state of fear—I’d rather have a chance to steal the keys. But at this point, I need the drugs. The cell is a bone-shaking cold, and I shiver myself into maybe an hour of microsleep. My eyes are too swollen to show the bags. Has it really been ten days? If this goes on for six weeks, I’ll set a world record for insomnia.

It saps my energy horribly, and when I’m awake, a persistent headache plagues me no matter how much I hydrate. When I’m bored enough to move around, my head spins and my balance is atrocious. I spend most of my time clinging to the walls. How much longer do I have to wait before my brain stops caring about the things slowly killing it?

I feel myself nodding off in the corner. Maybe this time, my fatigue will be fruitful. Maybe…

My eyes shoot back open. A terrible metallic screeching rattles my brain. I startle to life, laying eyes on the speaker beyond the bars. Crow isn’t here, and he’s not playing Blue Swede again. Instead, what fills the echoing chamber is a horrible overlapping cacophony of heavy metal screeching.

I cover my ears. It shoots off the walls. No… I’m so tired. Please, I’m so tired….

I close my eyes. I rock myself back and forth. My body vibrates: from cold, from the blaring music, anger and fear. How many more days?

Another sandwich. Another spray down. Another beating. Another slog through perpetual consciousness. I’m going to die.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel. There’s no light at all…

So why the fuck can’t I _sleep_?

The speaker doesn’t blast at me all the time, just intermittently, limiting the time I can doze off as I acclimatize to the cold. I feel my ribs. They’re more evident now, even with three meals. I burn off a lot of calories just shivering.

I stand the next time Crow barges into the room. The music has me hyped up, but my first swing is drained. He jabs me with adrenaline anyways. My coordination has gone out the window. I need to use my muscles more.

Another day, another beating. I lie still, feeling the wet ache that results from yet another unsuccessful attempt at a vengeful hit. The music echoes in my skull as I breathe. Can I nod off to this? Or am I too afraid I’ll choke on my own blood?

I close my eyes anyways. It doesn’t sound like that bad an option.

And then, the metallic screeching starts up again.

It plays for hours upon hours upon hours. I hold my hands to my ears, centered in the cell. It doesn’t matter how close I am to the speaker; it remains just as loud. On. And on. And on.

I can’t—

Please.

I can’t—

My lungs burst, and I scream.

I shriek as loud as I can, praying my voice drowns out the speaker. My ears ring white. Eventually, my voice empties, so I scream again. Again and again and again, until I physically can’t, and my voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper.

But it still plays.

I collapse fully, ignoring the weight bearing down on my left side. The bruises Crow recently left make much more of a fuss. I laugh. Fitting, Green is no monster compared to him.

847-603-55… Why do I have to sit through this alone? I proceed to sob into the grey rock. That’s the one benefit of isolation: I’m infrequently humiliated by infrequent visitors.

“I’ve never seen you cry before.”

I jerk up at the voice. It’s higher-pitched than my regular guests, but much too controlled to be Ferreira. But, it’s familiar. It can’t really…

My eyes water when I see Amat, standing casually in his pajamas. His sunny face breaks through the bars.

I wipe the tears on my forearm. “Shut up.”

He smiles, “You look awful.”

I almost laugh. “Yeah.” I crawl towards him, but he stays just out of reach. He gnarls his features into a woody look of bewilderment.

“And you’re naked.”

“Also yes.”

“Can’t say that’s a first, though.”

“Where have you been?”

Amat shrugs, “Looking for you. You really scared me after Carson’s party, you know. I couldn’t stop thinking about how you chose pussy hunting over me yet _again_. UGH!” He throws his hands up, “I was so angry! I wanted to kill you! I thought you had the _nerve_ not to text me. That you were just complacent with letting me worry. And now, well, I feel bad for thinking all those things about you.”

“You were right, though. I’m a shitty person.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re mad at yourself.”

“So? It’s true.”

“What?” he mocks, “Next you’re going to say something like ‘I deserve to be here’ or some nonsense. Did Ferreira’s destiny talk really get inside your head?”

I hug my knees tighter. Is he right? I do feel bad, but how much of that erupted from my own head?

“Do you hate me?”

Amat scoffs, flicking back his mop of black hair, “No. And I don’t plan to.”

“Even if I turn into a monster?”

“Like Crow?”

I nod. Amat shakes his head, “You said he was a monster long before you knew anything about this MCEC business. If that doesn’t make him one, it won’t make you one either.”

“What if it…changes me? Makes me insane?”

Amat offers a static air of disapproval. “Look who you’re talking to.” Right.

“I can’t do it anymore, Amat. God… How am I so weak?” Tears threaten to leak from me again. “It’s probably only been three fucking days and all I want to do it curl up and die. It’s so cold and I can’t sleep—”

Amat wraps his fingers around the bars. “Shhhhhh… Listen. Those things will go away, alright? Yeah, they hurt. And it’s okay to cry. But one day, they’ll be gone.”

I shake my head. “No. They want to keep me here forever.”

“That’s literally impossible.”

“You don’t know them.”

He pauses. “Wanna bet?”

My shivering ceases. Do I _want_ to bet on my own misfortune, especially with Amat’s recent streak? But I guess…if I lose…I haven’t really lost, have I?

I reach for his hand and shake it. His grasp is warm. I long to pull him through the bars with me. Alongside everything else, I’m ravenously flesh hungry. Even Amat looks appetizing with his flawless, caramel skin gliding under silk robes. But I’m so unenthused by the state of my body, affection is a distant dream.

Amat beams, smug as always, “You’re gonna regret that.”

“I hope I do.”

I release Amat’s hand, and then, like a puff of smoke, he’s gone.

The room returns to its familiar chill. I turn my palm to my face. It’s still warm. How is that? Was he really here? I want to believe he was, even if I shouldn’t.

I can’t hear the music anymore. Is it still playing? Who cares…? If I can’t hear it, it’s a relief. I lay my head on the stone, tucking my arms and legs in closer to the bars than I’ve rested before. I close my eyes and pray.

This time, please…

Please, let it take me.


	21. 10

10

The drive is long and mostly uneventful. Crow pulls the car around to the underground tunnel. He loads the two suitcases in the trunk and ushers me into the front seat. I get in slowly. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a car. Though the model is nothing special, it’s in immaculate condition. There isn’t even dirty snow along the bottom.

Wait? Is it winter? I have absolutely no idea.

Crow keeps a careful eye on me in the passenger seat. I check the binder for the appropriate documents as the vehicle carries up the steep, spiraling ramp to the surface. The soft glow of a white light bears down from above. It’s coming. It’s really coming.

I stow the documents in the glove compartment and wait to feel its rays on my skin. My stomach lurches. My guts are still settling, but I ignore the wash of pain.

The tires roll onto an empty street in what looks like an industrial center. Where is this? Have I been here before? Everything is brick and metallic, basking in a soft mist of natural sunlight, obscured by the day’s cloud cover. The slightest drizzle rains down from overhead, and Crow turns the slick windshield wipers up to their lowest setting.

I press my face to the window, soaking in whatever I can through the polarized glass. After ten minutes of driving, we exit onto sidewalks of people and parking lots outside crowded outlet malls. Saturday? Maybe it’s a long weekend? Ugh, I really should know this.

The car has a clock, as does the cellphone I’ve been given. Not much on it works aside from two phone numbers and the time. I track our movements through the city onto the expressway through another urban center, and back on the highway again. After an hour and forty-one minutes brawling with traffic, Crow pulls the vehicle into yet another underground parking garage. My heart races. I’m going to put my feet on something other than tile. But as soon as I raise my hopes, my gut gurgles again. I double over, collecting myself before stepping out of the car.

Crow exits and retrieves the suitcases. I pick up mine. It’s light, but we’re not traveling long. I heft the Swiss Army backpack onto my shoulders. Crow has one that’s nearly identical, though his suitcase has more room. I adjust my beltline and breathe in the free air. It’s musty, like the city, but not like downtown. I’ve never been so enthralled by the stench of gasoline.

I fiddle with my sweater, making sure the thick fabric covers everything nicely. If I slouch, it looks more natural—the tautness lost against the mess of folds.

Crow doesn’t look at me while he locks up the vehicle. “Stay quiet in the airport,” he reminds me, “There will be lots of people, and lots of new things. A boyish bout of curiosity is not worth never seeing them again.”

I already promised not to let him down, and I don’t mean to. If I can curtail my gag reflex, I have nothing to worry about.

My weight shifts as I drag the suitcase with my right arm, twisting my spine so the blocks slip to the side. My bowels suddenly tumble into a new position, and I falter before we reach the exit of the parking garage. Luckily, no one is around to see.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Crow waits.

“I’m fine…” I breathe, “It’s fine.”

He neither nods nor scowls, but continues as if I said nothing at all. I consume the ache and scurry after him.

I make it to the clean linoleum of the building. The peppering of natural light gives way to more fluorescents. I drag the suitcase onto a set of escalators up to the departures level, where an open mass of fogged-over windows waits.

It’s a crystal fish bowl. Everything is pristine and white and yet a thousand other people are here, doing a thousand other things. So many… And not one of them pays me any attention.

I keep my lips sealed, keeping enough distance from Crow that I don’t look like a lost puppy. My head whips back and forth at the mess of sounds and colors. Most people dress comfortably, like me, in track pants and a hoodie, but others are suited to the nines. Heels and oxfords clack against the tile, quickly followed by rumbling suitcases.

Head on my shoulders… Head on my shoulders… I can’t get over stimulated. I hunch further and train my eyes on the ground. Do I really have the brain of a labradoodle? Come on! Get yourself together!

I run on autopilot through the electronic check-in. Machines are familiar territory. I check my passport for how to spell my name. The machine registers the false ID and spits out my ticket.

Crow has already hefted his suitcase onto the belt and proceeded to security. My suitcase is lighter than his, but the minute I bend my back, my body protests. Terrible static cascades down my spinal cord. For a second, my legs go numb, and I wobble.

I catch my breath and awkwardly throw the suitcase on the belt from a position that won’t render me to the floor. Running seems like a bad idea, so I walk swiftly, trying to keep track of Crow’s shadowy form through the crowd. No matter how vibrant the space may be, he’s always in black—a stark reminder of the place we come from.

The only things in my backpack are a notepad, an empty water bottle, and a set of headphones. But Inigo _did_ say I’d get stopped at security. He put a doctor’s note somewhere, right? I don’t want to waste time getting pulled aside so some stranger can stick his hand up my ass. My foot taps in the queue. It’s long. I can’t see Crow anymore. I shouldn’t be alone. I can’t be trusted. What the hell was he thinking, bringing me along?

Do I have any liquids? No… Right. Look at something else. Anything! What about that girl? My eyes settle on the back of her head. Wow, she’s…actually really pretty. Her hair is up in a bun, but when untied, it probably tumbles down to her waist. She talks to the person she’s with; looks like her mother. She wears a thin line of gold eyeliner and a simple nose piercing. Her chest rises with her breath—straining against the cartoonish faces of her graphic T.

Something pokes me in the side. I jump at the sight of a large German Sheppard, whose nose has gone straight to my stomach.

I suck in instinctively, my abdominal muscles swiftly compacting my organs. My face flushes.

The dog snorts and tosses its head. Its handler laughs, “Sorry ‘bout that. I swear he thinks he can smell a good meal after it’s already gone. Must drive him crazy.”

I force a smile, “Yeah… What a life, huh?”

He says nothing else. The line moves forward, and I release my breath, adjusting my sweater again. I wrap my hands around the payment nervously. It’s cold where the dog poked me. Too close for comfort.

I look at the girl again. She really is beautiful. But she wouldn’t even look my way. I’m a goddamn night creature smuggling three kilos of cocaine over an international border, and for once in my life, I feel like the monstrosity I am.

Why do I even feel so bad? No one’s giving me strange looks. I’m not bumbling my way through the stanchions. But I know my body is not up to some godlike standard.

What time is it? Do I need to take my meds? I check my phone. It’s only five… I’m not scheduled to take them for another hour and a half.

I fight off the depressive spiral as I exit the mouth of the security line. I’m herded into the left-most lane. I take off my shoes and place them in the bin. Wait… Crow is almost through already—poised and professional as always.

My jaw clenches. Why can’t I be like that?

My backpack and watch go in the tray as well, and I leave the phone I have little attachment to. Travelers scramble to remove their effects as quickly as possible, although they clearly have too many items to do so effectively. A middle-aged woman starts arguing with security in the queue across from me. At least I don’t have to sit through that hold up.

A bland security officer checks my ticket, and another in dreads beckons me through the metal detector. I hold my breath. A high-pitched beep sounds above me.

I remember my excuse, but the agent ushers me to the full body scanner without question. Is it really that simple? What if that machine has x-rays?

I raise my hands over my head as directed. The blades of the scanner whir in a perfect circle. Breathe normally.

They ask me to step out. I catch a glimpse of the 3D-model on the screen. I look like I went on a terrible post-breakup ice-cream binge considering my muscle tone, but I guess my haggard face sells it.

I follow the numbers on my boarding pass to the appropriate gate. I don’t see Crow anywhere. I sit, arms still wrapped tightly around my stomach. It helps keep everything in place, and every time something does slip, I break out in a cold sweat.

An hour and a half until boarding… Should I get something to eat? I don’t have any American money, and I have to ask Crow to use the credit card. Shit, can I even eat with this stuff packed inside me? I don’t imagine my intestines will take kindly to it.

Suddenly, a hand rests on my shoulder.

“No issues?” Crow. I nod. We’re not supposed to spend time together. Did he see me sweating? He passes me a pre-packaged smoothie and a banana.

“They’ll serve dinner. Don’t eat too much. Liquids are better.”

I make sure my torso doesn’t twist when I uncap it. The last few rays of sun disappear through the airport’s windows, and stale blue lights accompany me yet again.

The smoothie tastes performatively healthy. At least it relieves my hunger pangs. Crow sits silently on the other side of the benches, never quite turning my way. Is he…worried?

I nurse the food for a solid hour—only taking little bites and sips to ensure my gut can handle it. Crow doesn’t eat anything. He really isn’t human sometimes.

The clock ticks on. I close my eyes and try to rest through the buzz of announcements made in every fathomable language. I don’t think my stomach’s upset, but my skin feels tense. This isn’t the body blueprint the rhodium microchip is familiar with, and it’s starting to resist. With enough time, it will drive the foreign material out like a splinter.

Of course, to move that much matter, it would take days—weeks, even—to drive out with inflammation alone. Nonetheless, I grimace more frequently as my abdominal cavity fills like a pustule. My pants are tight.

Finally, the plane boards. It’s a torrid affair in which everyone lines up at the inappropriate time and it takes half an hour longer than it should. I follow Crow’s lead. We’re not seated together, but he’s in my section. If anything goes wrong during the twenty-seven hours in the air, he’s the only one that can fix it.

I fight my way to a window seat and shove my bag to the ground, keeping only the headphones. There’s an entertainment system. My heart patters at the thought of new movies.

An older husband and wife take the two seats next to me, chatting up a storm before falling asleep before the safety briefing even begins. Their guts are way bigger than mine, and I feel a little smug. Although, they certainly aren’t experiencing waves of spine-bending agony.

The night will be lost in the time change, so I don’t see a point in sleeping. As the engine revs up and I adjust my seat, I doubt I’ll be able to anyways. One day without sleep is hardly an obstacle. It just…would be nice not to be conscious. What will my body do if I let it go unsupervised?

I press myself to the window. The lights of the city flicker below like a field of fireflies. Did I used to live here? What happens when we get back? How is Inigo doing, all alone with Green and Lombatto in that cold basement lab?

Twenty-seven hours. Entertain myself for that long, and then, I’ll find out.


End file.
